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9  j 




literature,  Science,  Slrt,  anD 




Btoersiie  Press,  Cambridge 


COPYRIGHT,  1883,  AND  1884, 







Annexation  of  Heaven,  The 135 

Annina Charles  Dunning 634 

Appleton,  Thomas  Gold Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 848 

Arnold,  Matthew,  as  a  Poet Harriet  Waters  Preston 641 

At  Bent's  Hotel E.  W.  Bellamy 631 

Beauregard,  General 551 

Bird  of  Solitude,  The Olive  Thorne  Miller 753 

Bishop's  Vagabond,  The Octave  Thanet 26 

Bonrget's  Essais  de  Psychologie  Contemporaine 857 

Bulwer,  Edward,  Lord  Lytton 717 

Champs  Elysees,  The 540 

Chester  Streets H.  H. 12 

Confederate  Cruisers,  The 260 

Crawford's,  Mr.,  To  Leeward        .    . " •    •  277 

Be  Longueville,  Madame  :  An  Outline  Portrait Maria  Louise  Henry 497 

Discovery  of  Peruvian  Bark,  The Henry  M.  Lyman 334 

Don  John  of  Austria Alexander  Young 375 

Drifting  Down  Lost  Creek Charles  Egbert  Craddock  ....      362,  441 

En  Province Henry  James 217,  515,  623 

English  Folk-Lore  and  London  Humors •  432 

Fate  of  Mansfield  Humphreys,  The Richard  Grant  White  .    : 3 

Fiction,  Recent  American 707 

Francesca  da  Rimini       430 

Greater  Britain  and  the  United  States 271 

Hafiz  of  Shiraz E.  P.  Evans .94 

Hessians  in  the  Revolution,  The 855 

History  of  Sculpture,  The 279 

Hutchinson,  Governor  Thomas George  E.  Ellis 662 

Illustrated  Books 131 

In  Madeira  Place C.  H.  White 229 

In  War  Time S.  Weir  Mitchell      .  1, 153,  297,  483,  651,  759 

Irving,  Henry Henry  A.  Clapp 418 

Journal  of  a  Hessian  Baroness,  The 351 

Julian's  Political  Recollections 560 

Keats,  The  American  Edition  of 422 

Latest  of  "  The  Virgilians,':  The 571 

Linguistic  Palaeontology E.  P.  Evans 613 

Literary  Studies,  Two 850 

Mr.  Washington  Adams,  A  Sequel  to Richard  Grant  White 108 

New  Party,  The J.  Laurence  Laughiin 837 

Newport George  Parsons  iMthrop 79,  206 

Old  War  Horse  to  a  Young  Politician,  An William  H.  McElroy 780 

Paris  Classical  Concerts 739 

Penury  not  Pauperism D.  O.  Kellogg 771 

Phillida  and  Coridon Bradford  Torrey 526 

Pisan  Winter,  A E.  D.  R.  Bianciardi 320 

Political  Field,  The E.  V.  SmaUey 124 

Presidential  Nominations Oliver  T.  Morton 455 

Progress  of  Nationalism,  The Edward  Stanwood 701 

Question  of  Ships,  The 859 

Recent  Travel 563 

Red  Sunset^  The N.  S.  Shaler 475 

Reminiscences  of  Christ's  Hospital      .     .v J.  M.  Hillyar 251 

Return  of  a  Native,  The Edith  M.  Thomas 508 

Roman  Singer,  A F.  Marion  Crawford  .  56, 183,  339,  464,  585, 


Seward,  William  H Henry  Cabot  Lodge 682 

Shakespeare,  William,  The  Anatomizing  of Richard  Grant  Wliite 595,815 

Silver  Danger,  The «/".  Laurence  Laughiin 677 



Sources  of  Early  Israelitish  History,  The Philip  H.  Wick.iteed 387 

Study  of  Greek,  The A.  P.  Peabody 71 

Texts  and  Translations  of  Hafiz E.  P.  Evans 309 

Trail  of  the  Sea-Serpent,  The J-  G.  Wood 799 

Trollope's,  Mr.,  Latest  Character 267 

Turgenieff,  Ivan Henry  James 42 

Tuttle's  History  of  Prussia 713 

Vagabonds  and  Criminals  of  India,  The Elizabetli  Robins 194 

Visit  to  South  Carolina  in  18GO,  A Edward  G.  Mason 241 

Voices  of  Power O.  B.  Frolhingliam 170 

Washington  as  it  Should  Be O.  B.  Frothingham 841 

Wentwortlfs  Crime Frank  Parks 787 


Arbutus,  The,  H.  H. 622       Lepage's  Joan  of  Are,  Helen  Grey  Cone  ....  86 

At  the  Saturday  Club,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  .     .      68       Marshal  Niel,  T.  B.  Altlrich 700 

Beach-Plum,  The,  E.  S.  F 758       Memory,  A,  A.  A.  Dayton 216 

Christening,  The,  S.  M.  B.  Piatt 779       Night  in  New  York,  George  Parsons  Latlirop    .    .  496 

Deisidaimonia,  A.  F. 350       To  a  Poet  in  the  City,  Thomas  William  Parsons  .  798 

Dew  of  Parnassus,  Edith  M.  Thomas 640       To-Day,  Helen  Grey  Cone  . 228 

Foreshadowing*,  Julia.  C.  H.  Dorr 259       Trio  for  Twelfth-Night,  A,  H.  Bernard  Carpenter  166 

Girdle  of  Friendship,  The,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes    386       Unheard  Music,  Ed/mind  W. 130 

Haroun  Al  Kaschid,  Helen  Grey  Cone      ....    463       Way  to  Arcady,  The,  H.  C.  Banner 333 


Ashton's  Humor,  Wit,  and  Satire  of  the  Seven-               Keats's  Poems 422 

teen th  Century 432       Kelley's  The  Question  of  Ships 859 

Baker's  Blessed  Ghost 141       Little  Pilgrim,  A 136 

Barnes's  Memoir  of  Thurlow  Weed 684       Lowell's  The    Hessians    and    the  other  German 

Bicknell's  Ilafiz  of  Shiraz 312  Auxiliaries  of  Great  Britain  in  the  Revolution- 

Bodenstedt's  Der  Sanger  von  Schiras 316           ary  War    ...» 836 

Bourget's  Essais  de  Psychologie  Contemporaine    .     857       Mitchell's  History  of  Ancient  Sculpture      .     .    .  279 

Bread-Winners,  The 708       O'Kell's  John  Bull  and  his  Island 570 

Brockhaus's  Die  Lieder  des  Hafis 309       Perkins's  Historical  Handbook  of  Italian  Sculp- 

Bulloch's  Secret  Service  of  the  Confederate  States                   ture 2S1 

in  Europe 260       Phelpt's  Beyond  the  Gates 138 

Bulwer's  Life,  Letters,  and  Literary  Remains    .     .    718       Poe's  Raven 131 

Crawford's  To  Leeward 277       Roman's  Military  Operations  of  General  Beaure- 

Dyer's  Folk- Lore  of  Shakespeare 432          gard  in  the  War  between  the  States 551 

Fawcett's  Ambitious  Woman 710       Saltus's  Balzac 850 

Field's  Among  the  Holy  Hills 568       Scott's  Renaissance  of  Art  in  Italy 134 

Fleming's  Vestigia 707       Seeley's  Expansion  of  England 271 

Genung's  Tennyson's  In  Memoriam 853       Seward,  Wm.  II.,  The  Works  of 684 

Grey's  Elegy  written  in  a  Country  Churchyard                Speed's  Letters  of  John  Keats 422 

(Artists' Edition)    . 134       Tennyson's  Princess 133 

Grey's  Elegy  written  in  a  Country  Churchyard                Trollope's  Autobiography 267 

(Fenn?s  Edition) 133       Trumbull's  Kadesh-Barnea 565 

Hawthorne's  Beatrix  Randolph 711       Tuttle's  History  of  Prussia 713 

Hutchinson's  Diary  and  Letters 665       Warner's  Roundabout  Journey 568 

Ingelow's  High  Tide  on  the  Coast  of  Lincolnshire    134       Wilstach's  Works  of  Virgil 572 

James's  Portraits  of  Places    . 569       Yriarte's  Francoise  de  Rimini  dans  la  Le"gende  et 

James's  Wild  Tribes  of  the  Soudan 563          dans  1'Histoire 430 

Jewett's  Mate  of  the  Daylight 712      Zincke's  Plough  and  the  Dollar 276 

Julian's  Political  Recollections 660 


Adventure,  An,  143;  Artists  and  Actors,  145 ;  "  As  "  and  "  That,"  680  ;  Attraction  of  Opposites,  The,  437  ;  Au- 
tograph Hunters,  581 ;  Beleaguered  City,  A,  579 ;  Biblical  Expurgator,  A,  861  ;  Chez  Worth,  282  ;  Concerning 
Separateness,  291 ;  Daudet,  Alphonse,  724  ;  Dies  Iras,  The,  723  ;  French  and  English,  435  ;  Frost  and  Moon- 
shine, 722 ;  II  and  R  in  the  "  American  Language,"  290 ;  Ignorant  Criticism,  578  ;  Imagination,  Creative  and 
Receptive,  146;  Long  Calls,  146 ;  Moral  Cross-Breeds,  864 ;  Motto  for  the  Wa<te  Basket,  £91;  Oak  Galls,  863; 
One  and  the  Other,  The,  437 ;  Perils  of  Shrewdness.  The,  721;  Railway  Impressions,  144;  Rhymed  Letter  by 
Lowell,  A,  576;  South  Carolina  "  Cracker  "  Dialect  in  The  Bishop's  Vagabond,  The,  436:  Translation  from 
B(5ranger,  A,  292  ;  Turning  Points,  862 ;  Washington  Crows,  580  ;  Water-Fowl,  A,  438  ;  Winter  Files,  288 ; 
Woman  who  shuts  her  Eyes,  The,  287  ;  Yankeeisms,  286. 

BOOKS  OF  THE  MONTH 148,  293,  439,  582,  727,  866 


at  #laga$ine  of  Literature,  Science,  art,  ana 

VOL.  LIU.  — JANUARY,  1884.  — No.  OOCXV. 



IK  the  latter  part  of  the  afternoon  of 
a  summer  day  in  the  year  1863,  a  little 
crowd  gathered  near  the  door  of  the 
military  hospital  on  Filbert  Street,  in 
the  city  of  Philadelphia.  Like  the  rest 
of  the  vast  camps  of  the  sick,  which 
added  in  those  days  to  the  city  popula- 
tion some  twenty-five  thousand  of  the 
maimed  and  ill,  this  one  has  been  lost, 
in  the  healing  changes  with  which  civil- 
izing progress,  no  less  quickly  than  for- 
giving nature,  is  apt  to  cover  the  traces 
of  war. 

The  incident  which  drew  to  the  hos- 
pital gate  a  small  crowd  was  common  in 
those  days.  Ambulances  were  bringing 
to  its  portal  a  share  of  such  wounded 
men  as  were  fit  to  be  removed  to  a  dis- 
tance from  Gettysburg  and  distributed 
among  the  great  hospitals  of  the  North. 
A  surgeon  in  green  sash  and  undress 
army  uniform  stood  bareheaded  with- 
in the  shade  of  the  doorway.  Beside 
the  curbstone,  near  the  ambulances,  a 
younger  man,  an  assistant  surgeon,  di- 
rected the  attendants,  as  they  bore  the 
wounded  into  the  building  on  stretchers 
between  double  lines  of  soldiers  of  the 
invalid  corps,  who  at  that  time  did  guard 
duty  in  our  hospitals. 

The  surgeon  at  the  doorway,  a  tall, 
refined-looking  man,  so  erect  as  to  seem 
a  little  stiff  in  figure,  made  occasional 

comments  in  a  quiet,  well-bred  voice, 
rather  monotonously  free  from  the  de- 
cisive sharpness  which  habits  of  com- 
mand are  apt  to  produce. 

"  Step  together,  my  men.     Left,  right 

—  you  shake  the  stretcher  !    Left,  right 

—  make   more    room    there,    sergeant. 
Keep  back  the  crowd." 

Sometimes,  a  man  got  out  of  the  am- 
bulance with  help,  and  limped  eagerly 
into  the  open  doorway ;  sometimes,  lost 
to  all  around  him,  one  was  borne  in  mo- 
tionless ;  sometimes,  it  was  a  face  to 
which  death  had  already  whispered, 
"  Come."  In  the  little  hall  the  bearers 
paused,  while  a  young  surgeon  asked  a 
few  brief  questions,  after  which  the  sick 
man  was  given  his  iced  lemonade,  or 
some  other  refreshing  drink,  and  taken 

Now  and  then  an  officer  was  carried 
in.  This  was  usually  some  desperately 
wounded  man,  unable  to  be  taken  to  his 
home.  As  these  sufferers  passed  the 
surgeon  in  charge,  he  noted  the  scrap 
of  uniform,  or  the  cap,  and  drawing  him- 
self up,  saluted  with  excessive  military 
accuracy.  Were  the  man  too  ill  or  too 
careless  to  notice  this  courtesy,  a  faint 
lift  of  the  surgeon's  brow,  some  slight 
treachery  of  the  features,  showed  that 
he,  at  least,  felt  that  nothing  less  than 
paralysis  would  have  prevented  him 
from  returning  the  military  salutation. 

Meanwhile,  about  two  squares  away, 

Copyright,  1883,  by  HOUGHTON,  MIF'FUN  &  Co. 

In  War  Time. 


as  Philadelphians  say,  a  man  and  wo- 
man were  walking  somewhat  rapidly  to- 
ward the  hospital.  The  man  was  what  is 
known  iu  the  army  as  a  "  contract-assist- 
ant surgeon,"  that  is,  a  physician  taken 
from  civil  life  and  paid  at  a  certain  rate 
per  month  to  do  the  duty  of  a  military 
surgeon.  In  some  cases  these  gentlemen 
lived  in  the  hospitals,  and  were  of  course 
expected  to  wear  uniform,  and  to  submit 
to  all  the  usual  rules  of  military  life. 
Others  merely  attended  at  set  hours,  and 
included  not  only  certain  of  the  most 
able  men  in  the  profession  of  medicine, 
but  also  a  great  number  of  the  more 
or  less  competent,  glad  enough  of  the 
eighty  dollars  a  month  which  they  re- 
ceived. Among  these  latter  were  many  of 
those  hapless  persons  who  drift  through 
life,  and  seize,  as  they  are  carried  along, 
such  morsels  of  good  luck  as  the  great 
tides  of  fortune  float  within  reach  of  their 
feeble  tentacula.  This  con  tract  surgeon 
was  a  man  of  full  middle  height.  He 
stooped  slightly,  but  the  habit  became 
oddly  noticeable  owing  to  his  uniform, 
on  which  the  surgeon  iu  charge  insisted 
during  the  time  of  the  hospital  visit. 
He  wore  a  military  cap,  under  which  his 
hair  curled  softly.  His  features  were 
distinct  but  delicate,  and  the  upper  lip, 
which  was  short,  retreated  a  little,  a 
peculiarity  apt  to  give  to  the  counte- 
nance a  certain  purity  of  expression. 
His  face  was  clean  shaved,  but  he  had 
better  have  worn  a  mustache,  since  the 
mouth  was  too  regular  for  manly  beauty. 
As  he  went  by,  two  sun-browned  young 
fellows  in  uniform,  and  wearing  their 
corps  marks,  turned  and  glanced  at  him. 
One  of  them  said,  "  What  an  interesting 
face ! "  The  other  returned,  smiling, 
"  But  what  a  careless  figure !  and  a  sol- 
dier with  a  sun  umbrella  is  rather  droll." 
In  fact,  there  was  a  certain  look  of  in- 
difference to  appearances  about  the 
man's  whole  aspect,  and  the  umbrella 
which  had  excited  remark  was  carried  at 
a  lazy  slope  over  the  shoulder.  Evident- 
ly, he  felt  very  keenly  the  damp,  oppres- 

sive heat  of  the  July  day  ;  but  while  this 
was  seen  in  the  indolent  slowness  of  his 
walk,  his  face  showed  plainly  that  the 
mind  was  more  alive  than  the  body.  As 
they  crossed  the  small  park  then  known 
as  Penu  Square,  he  paused  to  pick  up  a 
flower,  counted  its  stamina,  and  stowed 
it  away  in  the  lining  of  his  cap.  An  in- 
sect on  his  sister's  sleeve  drew  his  atten- 
tion. The  trees,  the  passers-by,  a  mon- 
key and  a  hand-organ  at  a  street  corner, 
all  seemed  to  get  in  turn  a  share  of  alert, 
attentive  regard. 

The  woman  beside  him  was  a  strange 
contrast.  Unmindful  of  anything  about 
her,  she  walked  on  steadily  with  a  firm, 
elastic  step,  and  a  face  which,  however 
pleasing,  —  and  it  was  distinctly  that,  — 
was  not  remarkable  for  decided  expres- 
sion. Whatever  might  have  been  her 
fortunes,  time  as  yet  had  failed  to  leave 
upon  her  face  any  strong  lines  of  char- 
acterization. Absolute  health  offers  a 
certain  resistance  to  these  grim  chisel- 
ings  of  face ;  and  in  this  woman  ruddy 
cheeks,  clear  eyes,  and  round  facial  lines 
above  a  plump  but  well-built  and  com- 
pact frame  told  of  a  rarely  wholesome 
life.  She  was  dressed  in  gray  linen,  fit- 
ting her  well,  but  without  cuffs,  collar, 
or  ribbon ;  and  although  the  neatness 
of  her  guise  showed  that  it  must  have 
exacted  some  care,  it  was  absolutely  de- 
void of  ornament.  In  her  hand  she  car- 
ried a  rather  heavy  basket,  which  now 
and  then  she  shifted  from  one  side  to 
the  other,  for  relief. 

Presently  they  turned  into  Filbert 
Street  from  Broad  Street. 

"  Do  look,  Ann  !  "  said  Dr.  Wendell 
to  his  sister.  "  I  never  pass  this  paper 
mulberry-tree  without  a  sense  of  disgust. 
There  is  a  reptilian  vileness  of  texture 
and  color  about  the  trunk ;  and  don't 
you  remember  how,  when  we  were  chil- 
dren, we  used  to  try  to  find  two  leaves 
alike  ?  Don't  you  think,  Ann,  there  is 
something  exasperating  about  that  ?  I 
was  trying  to  think  why  it  annoyed  me 
now.  It  is  such  a  contradiction  to  the 


In  War  Time. 

tendency  of  nature  towards  monotonous 

"  You  had  best  be  trying  to  hurry  up 
a  little,"  returned  Miss  Wendell. 

"  Do  give  me  that  basket,  dear,"  said 
her  companion,  pausing;  "  it  is  much  too 
heavy  for  you.  I  should  have  carried 
it  myself." 

"  It  is  not  heavy,"  she  said,  smiling, 
"  and  I  am  very,  well  used  to  it.  But  I 
do  think,  brother  Ezra,  we  must  hur- 
ry. Why  cannot  you  hurry  ?  You  are 
half  an  hour  late  now,  and  do  look  at 
your  vest !  It  is  buttoned  all  crooked, 
and  —  Why,  there  is  quite  a  crowd  at 
the  hospital  door !  Oh,  why  were  you 
so  late  !  and  they  do  fuss  so  when  you 
are  late." 

"  I  see,  I  see,"  he  said.  "  What  can 
it  be  ?  I  wish  it  was  n't  so  hot.  Do 
hurry,  Ann !  " 

The  woman  smiled  faintly.  "  Yes, 
it  is  warm.  Here,  take  this  basket.  I 
am  tired  out."  Upon  which,  somewhat 
reluctantly  lowering  his  umbrella,  he 
took  the  basket,  and  quickened  his  pace. 
A  large  man,  solidly  built,  drove  by  in  a 
victoria,  with  servants  on  the  box,  him- 
self in  cool  white.  Dr.  Wendell  glanced 
at  him  as  he  passed,  and  thought,  "  That 
looks  like  the  incarnation  of  success  !  " 
and  wondered  vaguely  what  lucky  fates 
had  been  that  man's  easy  ladders.  Very 
successful  men  and  people  who  have  had 
many  defeats  both  get  to  be  supersti- 
tious believers  in  blind  fortune,  while  a 
certain  amount  of  misfortune  destroys 
in  some  all  the  germs  of  success.  For 
others,  a  failure  is  like  a  blow.  It  may 
stagger,  but  it  excites  to  forceful  action. 

"  Come ! "  said  his  sister,  looking  as 
worried  and  flushed  as  if  she,  and  not 
he,  had  been  to  blame  ;  and  in  a  minute 
or  two  they  were  entering  the  hospital. 

"  Good-evening,  Miss  Wendell,"  said 
the  surgeon;  "excuse  me — don't  stand 
in  the  way.  A  moment,  Dr.  Wendell, 
—  a  moment,"  he  added,  saluting  him; 
and  glancing,  with  a  gentleman's  in- 
stinct, after  Miss  Wendell,  to  be  sure 

she  was  out  of  hearing.  Then  turning, 
he  said  to  his  subordinate,  "  You  are  a 
full  half  hour  late  ;  in  fact,"  taking  out 
his  watch,  "  the  clock  misled  me,  —  you 
are  thirty-nine  minutes  late.  Sergeant, 
don't  let  me  see  that  clock  wrong  again. 
It  should  be  set  every  morning." 

Wendell  flushed.  Like  most  men  who 
think  over-well  of  themselves,  he  was  sen- 
sitive to  all  reproof,  and  the  training  of 
civil  life,  while  it  had  made  more  or  less 
of  hardship  easy  to  bear,  had  unfitted 
him  for  the  precision  which  that  army 
surgeon  exacted  alike  from  his  juniors 
and  his  clocks. 

"I  was  somewhat  delayed,"  said 

"  Ah  ?  No  matter  about  excuses.  You, 
we  all  of  us,  are  portions  of  a  machine. 
I  never  excuse  myself  to  myself,  or  to 
others.  Yes  —  yes  —  I  know  "  —  as 
Wendell  began  again  to  explain.  At  this 
moment  the  soldiers  set  down  at  his  feet 
a  stretcher  just  removed  from  an  am- 
bulance, while  another  set  of  bearers 
took  their  places. 

The  surgeon  saluted  the  new-comer 
on  his  little  palliasse,  noting  that  around 
him  lay  a  faded  coat  of  Confederate 
gray,  with  a  captain's  stripes  on  the 
shoulders.  The  wounded  man  returned 
the  salute  with  his  left  arm. 

"  You  were  hurt  at  Gettysburg  ?  " 
said  the  surgeon. 

"  Yes,  sir.  On  Cemetery  Hill ;  and  a 
damned  hard  fight,  too  !  We  were  most 
all  left  there.  I  shall  never  see  a  bet- 
ter fight  if  I  go  to  heaven  !  " 

The  attendants  laughed,  but  the  sur- 
geon's face  rested  unmoved. 

"  I  hope  you  will  soon  be  well." 
Then  he  added  kindly,  "  Dr.  Wendell, 
see  that  this  gentleman  is  put  in  Wunl 
Two,  near  a  window,  and  give  him  some 
milk  punch  at  once ;  he  looks  pale.  No 
lemonade  ;  milk  punch.  Come  now.  my 
men  ;  move  along !  Who  next  ?  Ah, 
Major  Morton,  I  have  been  expecting 
you ! "  and  he  bent  to  shake  hands 
warmly  with  a  sallow  man  who  filled 

In  War  Time. 


the  next  stretcher.  "  I  am  sorry  and 
glad  to  see  you  here.  I  got  your  dis- 
patch early  to-day.  Gettysburg,  too,  I 
suppose  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Cemetery  Hill.  I  wonder  the 
old  Fifth  has  any  one  alive  !  " 

"  Well,  well,"  replied  the  surgeon, 
"  we  shall  give  you  a  health  brevet 
soon.  Bed  Number  Five,  next  to  the 
last  man.  Take  good  care  of  Major 
Morton,  Dr.  Wendell.  He  is  an  old 
friend  of  mine.  There,  easy,  my  men  ! 
I  will  presently  see  to  you  myself,  Mor- 

And  so  the  long  list  of  sick  and  hurt 
were  carried  in,  one  by  one,  a  small 
share  of  the  awful  harvest  of  Gettys- 
burg, until,  as  night  fell,  the  surgeon 
turned  and  entered  the  hospital,  the 
sentinel  resumed  his  place  at  the  open 
door,  and  the  crowd  of  curious  scattered 
and  passed  away. 

Meanwhile,  Dr.  Wendell  went  mood- 
ily up-stairs  to  the  vast  ward  which  oc- 
cupied all  the  second  floor  of  the  old 
brick  armory.  He  was  one  of  those  un- 
happy people  who  are  made  sore  for 
days  by  petty  annoyances ;  nor  did  the 
possession  of  considerable  intelligence 
and  much  imagination  help  him.  In 
fact,  these  qualities  served  only,  as  is 
usual  in  such  natures,  to  afford  him  a 
more  ample  fund  of  self-torment.  In 
measuring  himself  with  others,  he  saw 
that  in  acquisitions  and  mind  he  was 
their  superior,  and  he  was  constantly 
puzzled  to  know  why  he  failed  where 
they  succeeded. 

The  vast  hall  which  he  entered  was 
filled  with  long  rows  of  iron  bedsteads, 
each  with  its  little  label  for  the  owner's 
name,  rank,  disease,  and  treatment  sus- 
pended from  the  iron  cross-bar  above  the 
head  of  the  sufferer.  Beside  each  bed 
stood  a  small  wooden  table,  with  one  or 
two  bottles  and  perhaps  a  book  or  two 
upon  it.  The  walls  were  whitewashed, 
the  floor  was  scrupulously  clean,  and  an 
air  of  extreme  and  even  accurate  neat- 
ness pervaded  the  place.  Except  for  the 

step  of  a  nurse,  or  occasional  words  be- 
tween patients  near  to  one  another,  or 
the  flutter  of  the  fans  which  some  of 
them  were  using  to  cool  themselves  in 
the  excessive  heat,  there  was  but  little 

Dr.  Wendell  followed  the  litters  and 
saw  the  two  officers,  gray  coat  and  blue 
coat,  placed  comfortably  in  adjoining 

"  Are  you  all  right  ?  "  said  Wendell 
to  the  Confederate. 

"  Oh,  yes,  doctor  !  I  've  had  too  hard 
a  time  to  growl.  This  is  like  heaven ; 
it 's  immensely  like  heaven  !  " 

Miss  Wendell  had  followed  them,  af- 
ter distributing  here  and  there  some  of 
the  contents  of  her  basket. 

"  Stop,"  she  said  to  her  brother ;  "  let 
them  lift  him.  There,"  she  added,  with 
a  satisfied  air,  as  she  shook  up  and  re- 
placed the  pillow,  —  "  there,  that  is  bet- 
ter !  Here  are  two  or  three  ripe  peaches. 
You  said  it  was  like  heaven.  Don't  you 
think  all  pleasant  things  ought  to  make 
us  think  of  heaven  ?  " 

"  Oh,  by  George,"  he  replied ;  "  my 
dear  lady,  did  you  ever  have  a  bullet  in 
your  shoulder  ?  I  can't  think,  for  tor- 
ment. I  can  only  feel." 

"  That  may  have  its  use,  too,"  said 
she,  simply.  "  I  have  been  told  that 
pain  is  a  great  preacher." 

The  patient  smiled  grimly.  "  He  gets 
a  fellow's  attention,  any  way,  if  that 's 
good  preaching !  " 

"  Ann,  Ann !  "  exclaimed  her  brother. 
"  Don't  talk  to  him.  Don't  talk,  espe- 
cially any  —  I  mean,  he  is  too  tired." 

"  I  do  not  think  I  hurt  him,  brother," 
she  returned,  in  a  quiet  aside.  "  But 
there  are  errands  which  may  not  be 
delayed  to  wait  for  our  times  of  ease." 

"  Oh,  it  is  no  matter,  doctor,"  said 
the  officer,  smiling,  as  he  half  heard  Dr. 
Wendell's  comment.  "  I  like  it.  Don't 
say  a  word.  It  would  be  a  pleasure 
even  to  be  scolded  by  a  woman.  It  is 
all  right,  I  know!  Thank  you,  miss. 
A  little  water,  please."  And  then  the 


In  War  Time. 

doctor  and  his  sister  turned  to  the  other 

"  Major  Morton,  I  believe?"  said  the 

"  Yes,  John  Morton,  Fifth  Pennsyl- 
vania Reserves.  Confound  the  bed, 
doctor,  how  hard  it  is !  Are  all  your 
beds  like  this  ?  It 's  all  over  hummocks, 
like  a  damson  pie  !  " 

The  doctor  felt-  that  somehow  he  was 

"  I  never  noticed  it,"  said  Wendell. 
"  The  beds  are  not  complained  of." 

"  But  I  complain  of  it.  However,  I 
shall  get  used  to  it,  I  suppose.  There 
must  be  at  least  six  feathers  in  the  pil- 
low !  " 

"  It  is  n't  feather.  It  is  hair,"  re- 
marked Miss  Wendell.  "  That 's  much 
cooler,  you  know." 

"  Cooler  !  "  replied  the  major.    "  It's 

red  hot.     Everything  is  red  hot !     But 

I  suppose  it  is  myself.      Confound  the 

flies  !    I  wonder  what  the  deuce  they  're 

.  for  !     Could  n't  I  have  a  net  ?  " 

"Flies?"  reflected  Miss  Wendell. 
"  They  must  be  right  —  but  —  but  they 
are  dirty  !  "  She  wisely,  however,  kept 
silence  as  to  the  place  and  function  of 
flies  in  nature.  "  I  will  ask  for  a  net," 
she  said. 

"  Oh,  yes,  do,"  he  returned ;  "  that 's 
a  good  woman." 

"  I  am  not  a  good  woman,"  exclaimed 
Miss  Wendell,  "but  I  will  ask  about 
the  net." 

"  Oh,  but  you  will  be,  if  you  get  me  a 
net,"  continued  the  patient.  "  And  ask, 
too,  please,  about  my  wife.  She  was 
to  be  in  the  city  to-day." 

He  spoke  like  one  used  to  command, 
and  as  if  his  discomforts  were  to  receive 
instant  attention.  In  the  field  no  man 
was  easier  pleased,  or  less  exacting  about 
the  small  comforts  of  camp,  but  the  re- 
turn to  a  city  seemed  to  let  loose  all  the 
habitual  demands  of  a  life  of  ease. 

Dr.  Wendell  promised  to  see  about 
the  lady. 

Mrs.  Morton  was  to  come  from  Sara- 

toga, and  why  could  not  Dr.  Lagrange 
see  him  at  oiice  't  Every  one  kept  him 
waiting,  and  he  supposed  Mrs.  Morton 
would  keep  him  waiting,  like  every  one 

At  length  Miss  Wendell  said,  "My 
brother  has  his  duties  here,  sir.  I  think 
I  can  go  and  see  about  it.  You  must 
needs  feel  troubled  concerning  your 
wife.  As  you  look  for  her  to-day,  I 
might  meet  her  at  the  depot,  because, 
if,  as  you  have  said,  she  does  not  know 
to  what  hospital  you  have  been  taken, 
she  will  be  in  great  distress, — great  dis- 
tress, I  should  think." 

"  Yes,  great  distress,"  repeated  Major 
Morton,  with  an  odd  gleam  of  amuse- 
ment on  his  brown  face.  "  But  how 
will  you  know  her  ?  Stop  !  Yes  — 
she  telegraphed  me  she  would  come  by 
an  afternoon  train  to-morrow,  and  I  am 
a  day  too  soon,  you  see." 

"  There  are  only  three  trains,"  said 
Miss  Wendell,  looking  at  the  time-table 
in  an  evening  paper,  which  an  orderly 
had  been  sent  to  find.  "I  can  go  to 
them  all,  if  you  wish.  I  do  not  mind 
taking  trouble  for  our  wounded  soldiers. 
It  is  God's  cause,  sir.  Don't  let  it  worry 

Morton's  mustache  twitched  with  the 
partly  controlled  merriment  of  the  hid- 
den lips  beneath  it.  There  was,  for  his 
nature,  some  difficulty  in  seeing  rela- 
tions between  a  large  belief  and  small 
duties.  There  was  the  Creator,  of  whom 
he  thought  with  vagueness,  and  who 
certainly  had  correct  relations  to  Christ 
Church;  but  what  had  he  to  do  with  a 
woman  going  to  look  for  another  wo- 
man at  a  depot  ? 

"  You  might  tell  my  sister,  major, 
what  Mrs.  Morton  is  like,"  suggested 
Dr.  Wendell. 

"  Like  ?  "  returned  Morton,  rather 
wearily,  and  then  again  feebly  amused 
at  the  idea  of  describing  his  wife. 
"  Like,  like  ?  By  George,  that 's  a  droll 
idea !  " 

Most  of  us,  in  fact,  would  have  a  little 


In  War  Time. 

trouble  in  accurately  delineating  for  a 
stranger  the  people  familiar  to  us,  and 
would,  if  abruptly  required  to  do  so,  be 
apt  to  hesitate,  or,  like  the  major,  to  halt 

"  Like  ?  "  he  again  said.  "  God  bless 
me  !  why,  I  could  n't  describe  myself  !  " 

"  But  her  gown  ?  "  said  Miss  Wen- 
dell, with  ingenuity,  and  remembering, 
with  a  sense  of  approval  of  her  own 
cleverness,  that  she  herself,  having  but 
two  gowns,  might  through  them,  at 
least,  be  identified. 

Major  Morton  laughed.  "  Gown  ? 
She  may  have  had  twenty  gowns  since 
I  saw  her.  It  is  quite  eighteen  months. 
You  might  look  for  a  tall  woman,  rather 
simply  dressed,  —  handsome  woman,  I 
may  say.  Small  boy  with  her,  a  maid, 
and  no  end  of  bundles,  bags,  rugs,  —  all 
that  sort  of  thing.  You  must  know." 

Miss  Wendell  was  not  very  clear  in 
her  own  mind  that  she  did  know,  but, 
seeing  that  the  wounded  man  was  tired, 
accepted  his  description  as  sufficient,  and 
said  cheerfully,  "  No  doubt  I  shall  find 
her.  Good-night." 

"Beg  pardon,  doctor,  but  I  didn't 
quite  catch  your  name,"  said  the  pa- 

"  My  name  is  Wendell,  —  Dr.  Wen- 
dell," returned  the  doctor. 

"  Thanks ;  and  one  thing  more,  doc- 
tor :  send  me  some  opium,  and  soon,  too. 
I  am  suffering  like  the  devil !  " 

"  How  little  he  knows !  "  thought 
Miss  Wendell,  with  a  grave  look  and  an 
inward  and  satisfactory  consciousness 
that  her  beliefs  enabled  her  at  least  to 
entertain  a  higher  and  more  just  appre- 
ciation in  regard  to  the  improbable 
statement  he  had  made. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  doctor.  "We'll 
see  about  it."  He  had  a  feeling,  not 
quite  uncommon  in  his  profession,  that 
such  suggestions  in  regard  to  treatment 
were  in  a  measure  attacks  on  his  own 
prerogative  of  superior  intelligence. 
"We  shall  see,"  he  said,  "when  we 
make  the  evening  round." 

"  Confound  the  fellow,  and  his  even- 
ing round ! "  growled  the  major  under 
his  mustache.  "  I  wish  he  had  my  leg, 
or  I  had  him  in  my  regiment." 

But  happy  in  the  assertion  of  his  pro- 
fessional position,  Dr.  Wendell  had  re- 
joined his  sister,  the  more  content  be- 
cause he  felt  that  she  had  relieved  him 
of  the  trouble  of  finding  the  wife  of  the 
officer.  Like  many  people  who,  intel- 
lectually, are  active  enough,  he  disliked 
physical  exertion.  At  times,  indeed,  he 
mildly  reproached  himself  for  the  many 
burdens  he  allowed  his  sister  to  carry, 
and  yet  failed  to  see  how  largely  she 
was  the  power  which  supplemented  his 
own  nature  by  urging  him  along  with 
an  energy  which  often  enough  distressed 
him,  and  as  often  hurt  his  self-esteem. 
There  are  in  life  many  of  these  partner- 
ships :  a  husband  with  intellect  enough, 
owing  the  driving  power  to  a  wife's 
sense  of  duty,  or  to  her  social  ambitions ; 
a  brother  with  character,  using,  half- 
unconsciously.  the  generous  values  of  a 
sister's  more  critical  intelligence.  When 
one  of  the  partners  in  these  concerns 
dies,  the  world  says,  "  Oh,  yes,  he  is 
quite  used  up  by  this  death.  Now  he 
has  lost  all  his  activity.  Poor  fellow, 
he  must  have  felt  it  very  deeply." 


Moods  are  the  climates  of  the  mind. 
They  warm  or  chill  resolves,  and  are  in 
turn  our  flatterers  or  our  cynical  sati- 
rists. With  some  people,  their  moods  are 
fatal  gifts  of  the  east  or  the  west  wind ; 
while  with  others,  especially  with  cer- 
tain women,  and  with  men  who  have 
feminine  temperaments,  they  come  at 
the  call  of  a  resurgent  memory,  of  a 
word  that  wounds,  of  a  smile  at  meet- 
ing, or  at  times  from  causes  so  trivial 
that  while  we  acknowledge  their  force 
we  seek  in  vain  for  the  reasons  of  their 
domination.  With  Wendell,  the  moods 
to  which  he  was  subject  made  a  good 


In  War  Time. 

deal  of  the  sun  and  shade  of  life.  He 
was  without  much  steady  capacity  for 
resistance,  and  yielded  with  a  not  incu- 
rious attention  to  his  humors,  —  being 
either  too  weak  or  too  indifferent  to  bat- 
tie  with  their  influence,  and  in  fact  hav- 
ing, like  many  persons  of  intelligence, 
without  vigor  of  character,  a  pleasure 
in  the  belief  that  he  possessed  in  a  high 
degree  individualities,  even  in  the  way 
of  what  he  knew  to  be  morbid. 

One  of  these  overshadowing  periods 
of  depression  was  brought  on  by  his  sis- 
ter's mild  remonstrance  concerning  his 
want  of  punctuality,  and  by  the  reproof 
of  his  superior,  Dr.  Lagrauge,  or,  as  he 
much  preferred  to  be  addressed,  Major 
Lagrange,  such  being  his  titular  rank 
on  the  army  register. 

Miss  Wendell  had  gone,  home  first, 
and  Wendell  was  about  to  follow  her, 
when  he  was  recalled  by  an  orderly, 
who  ran  after  him  to  tell  him  of  the  sud- 
den death  of  one  of  his  patients.  Death 
was  an  incident  of  hospital  life  too  com- 
mon to  excite  men,  in  those  days  of 
slaughter ;  but  it  so  chanced  that,  as  re- 
gards this  death,  Wendell  experienced  a 
certain  amount  of  discomfort.  A  young 
officer  had  died  abruptly,  from  sudden 
exertion,  and  Wendell  felt  vaguely  that 
his  own  mood  had  prevented  him  from 
giving  the  young  man  such  efficient  ad- 
vice as  might  have  made  him  more  care- 
ful. The  thought  was  not  altogether 

"  I  ought  never  to  have  been  a 
doctor,"  groaned  Wendell  to  himself. 
"  Everything  is  against  me."  Then, 
seeing  no  criticism  in  the  faces  of  the 
nurses,  he  gave  tho  usual  orders  in  case 
of  a  death,  and,  with  a  last  glance  at  the 
moveless  features  and  open  eyes  of  the 
dead,  left  the  ward. 

There  is  probably  no  physician  who 
cannot  recall  some  moment  in  his  life 
when  he  looked  with  doubt  and  trouble 
of  mind  on  the  face  of  death  ;  but  for  the 
most  part  his  is  a  profession  carried  on 
with  uprightness  of  purpose  and  habit- 

ual watchfulness,  so  that  it  is  but  very 
rarely  that  its  practitioners  have  as  just 
reason  for  self-reproach  as  Wendell  had. 

Very  ill  at  ease  with  himself,  he 
walked  towards  the  station,  where,  hav- 
ing missed  his  train,  he  had  to  wait  for 
half  an  hour.  Sitting  here  alone,  he 
soon  reasoned  himself  into  his  usual 
state  of  self-satisfied  calm.  It  was  after 
all  a  piece  of  bad  fortune,  and  attended 
with  no  consequences  to  himself ;  one 
of  many  deaths,  the  every-day  incidents 
of  a  raging  war  and  of  hospital  life. 
Very  likely  it  would  have  happened  soon 
or  late,  let  him  have  done  as  he  might. 
A  less  imaginative  man  would  have  suf- 
fered less  ;  a  man  with  more  conscience 
would  have  suffered  longer,  and  been 
the  better  for  it. 

At  the  station  in  Germantown  he  lit 
his  pipe,  and,  soothed  by  its  quieting  in- 
fluence, walked  homeward  to  his  house 
on  Main  street. 

He  was  rapidly  coming  to  a  state  of 
easier  mind,  under  the  effect  of  the  meer- 
schaum's subtle  influence  upon  certain 
group§  of  ganglionic  nerve  cells  deep  in 
his  cerebrum,  when,  stumbling  on  the 
not  very  perfect  pavements  -of  the  sub- 
urban village,  he  dropped  his  pipe,  and 
had  a  shock  of  sudden  misery  as  he  saw 
it  by  the  moonlight  in  fragments ;  a 
shock  which,  as  he  reflected  with  amaze- 
ment a  moment  later,  seemed  to  him 
—  nay,  which  was  —  quite  as  great  as 
that  caused  by  the  death  of  his  patient, 
an  hour  before  ! 

He  stood  a  moment,  overcome  with 
the  calamity,  and  then  walked  on  slow- 
ly, with  an  abrupt  sense  of  disturbing 
horror  at  the  feeling  that  the  pipe's 
material  wholeness  was  to  him,  for  a 
moment,  as  important  as  the  young  of- 
ficer's life.  The  people  who  live  in  a 
harem  of  sentiments  are  very  apt  to  lose 
the  wholesome  sense  of  relation  in  life, 
so  that  in  their  egotism  small  things  be- 
come large,  and  as  often  large  things 
small.  They  are  apt,  as  Wendell  was, 
to  call  to  their  aid  and  comfort  what- 


In  War  Time. 


ever  power  of  casuistry  they  possess  to 
support  their  feelings,  and  thus  by  de- 
grees habitually  weaken  their  sense  of 
moral  perspective. 

It  may  seem  a  slight  thing  to  dwell 
upon,  but  for  self  -  indulgent  persons 
there  is  nothing  valueless  in  their  per- 
sonal belongings,  and  the  train  of  re- 
flection brought  by  this  little  accident 
was  altogether  characteristic.  Thrown 
back  by  this  trifle  into  his  mood  of 
gloom,  he  reached  his  own  house,  and 
saw  through  the  open  windows  his  sis- 
ter's quiet  face  bent  over  her  sewing- 
machine,  which  was  humming  busily. 

About  two  years  before  this  date, 
Wendell  and  his  sister  had  left  the  little 
village  on  Cape  Cod  to  try  their  for- 
tunes elsewhere.  These  two  were  the 
last  descendants  of  a  long  line  of  severe- 
ly religious  divines,  who  had  lived  and 
preached  at  divers  places  on  the  Cape. 
But  at  last  one  of  them  —  Wendell's  fa- 
ther —  became  the  teacher  of  a  normal 
school,  and  died  in  late  middle  life,  leav- 
ing a  few  thousand  dollars  to  represent 
the  commercial  talent  of  some  genera- 
tions of  Yankees  whose  acuteness  had 
been  directed  chiefly  into  the  thorny 
tracks  of  biblical  exegesis.  His  son,  a  shy, 
intellectual  lad,  had  shown  promise  at 
school,  and  only  when  came  the  practi- 
cal work  of  life  exhibited  those  defects 
of  character  which  had  been  of  little 
moment  so  long  as  a  good  memory  and 
mental  activity  were  the  sole  requisites. 
Persistent  energy,  sufficing  to  give  the 
daily  supply  of  power  needful  for  both 
the  physical  and  mental  claims  of  any 
exacting  profession,  were  lacking.  In  a 
career  at  school  or  college  it  is  possible 
to  "  catch  up,"  but  in  the  school  of  life 
there  are  no  examinations  at  set  inter- 
vals, and  success  is  usually  made  up  of 
the  sum  of  happy  uses  of  multiplied 
fractional  opportunities.  His  first  fail- 
ure was  as  a  teacher,  one  of  the  most 
self-denying  of  avocations.  Then  he 
studied  medicine,  and  was  so  carried 
away  by  the  intellectual  enthusiasm  it 

aroused  in  him  that  could  he  have  re- 
tired into  some  quiet  college  nook,  as  a 
student  of  physiology  or  pathology,  he 
would  probably  have  attained  a  certain 
amount  of  reputation,  because  in  such  a 
career  irregular  activity  is  less  injurious. 
Want  of  means,  however,  or  want  of 
will  to  endure  for  a  while  some  neces- 
sary privations,  inclined  him  to  accept 
the  every-day  life  and  trials  of  a  prac- 
ticing physician  in  the  town  where  he 
was  born.  The  experiment  failed.  There 
was  some  want  in  the  young  man  which 
interfered  with  success  at  home,  so  that 
the  outbreak  of  the  war  found  him  ready, 
as  were  many  of  his  class,  to  welcome 
the  chances  of  active  service  as  a  doctor 
in  the  field.  A  rough  campaign  in  West 
Virginia  resulted  very  soon  in  his  sudden- 
ly quitting  the  army,  and  finding  his  way 
to  Philadelphia,  where  his  sister  joined 
him.  She  readily  accepted  his  excuse 
of  ill  health  as  a  reason  for  his  leaving 
the  service,  and  they  finally  decided  to 
try  their  luck  anew  in  the  Quaker  town. 
Miss  Wendell  brought  with  her  the  few 
thousand  dollars  which  represented  her 
father's  life-long  savings.  Yielding  to 
her  better  judgment,  the  doctor  found 
a  home  in  Germantown,  within  a  few 
miles  of  Philadelphia,  as  being  cheaper 
than  the  city,  and  in  the  little,  long- 
drawn-out  town  which  Pastorius  found- 
ed they  settled  themselves,  with  the 
conviction  on  Ann's  part  that  now,  at 
last,  her  brother's  talents  would  find  a 
fitting  sphere,  and  the  appreciation 
which  ignorant  prejudice  had  denied 
him  elsewhere.  What  more  the  severe, 
simple,  energetic  woman  of  limited  mind 
thought  of  her  brother,  we  may  leave 
this,  their  life-tale,  to  tell. 

The  house  they  rented  for  but  a  mod- 
erate sum  was  a  rather  large  two-story 
building  of  rough  gray  micaceous  stone, 
with  a  front  lit  by  four  windows.  Over 
the  door  projected  an  old-fashioned  pent- 
house, and  before  it  was  what  is  known 
in  Pennsylvania  as  a  stoop ;  that  is,  a 
large,  flat  stone  step,  with  a  bench  on 


In  War  Time. 

either  side.  Across  the  front  of  the 
house  an  ivy  had  year  by  year  spread 
its  leaves,  until  it  hung  in  masses  from 
the  eaves,  and  mingled  on  the  hipped 
roof  with  the  Virginia  creeper  and  the 
trumpet  vine,  which  grew  in  the  gar- 
den on  one  side  of  the  house,  and, 
climbing  to  the  gable,  mottled  in  October 
the  darker  green  with  crimson  patches. 
Behind  the  house  a  half  acre  of  garden 
was  gay  with  dahlias,  sunHowers,  and 
hollyhocks,  with  a  bit  of  pasture  farther 
back,  for  use,  if  needed. 

The  house  had  been,  in  the  past, 
the  dwelling  of  a  doctor,  who  had  long 
ceased  to  practice,  and  to  it  the  iister 
and  brother  had  brought  the  old  furni- 
ture from  a  home  on  Cape  Cod,  in  which 
some  generations  of  Puritan  divines  had 
lived,  and  in  which  they  had  concocted 
numberless  sermons  of  inconceivable 
length.  Notwithstanding  his  sister's 
economic  warnings,  the  doctor  had  added 
from  time  to  time,  as  his  admirable  taste 
directed,  many  books,  a  few  engravings, 
and  such  other  small  ornaments  as  his 
intense  love  of  color  suggested. 

As  he  now  entered  the  sitting-room, 
the  general  look  of  the  place  gave  him, 
despite  his  mood,  a  sense  of  tranquil 
pleasure.  The  high-backed,  claw-toed 
chairs,  the  tall,  mahogany  clock,  with 
its  chicken-cock  on  top,  seeming  to  wel- 
come him  with  the  same  quiet  face 
which  had  watched  him  from  childhood, 
were  pleasant  to  the  troubled  man  ;  and 
the  fireplace  tiles,  and  the  red  curtains, 
and  the  bits  of  Delft  ware  on  the  man- 
tel were  all  so  agreeable  to  his  sense 
of  beauty  in  form  and  color  that  he 
threw  himself  into  a  chair  with  some 
feeling  of  comfort.  His  sister  left  her 
work,  and,  crossing  the  room,  kissed 
him.  Evidently  he  was  her  chief  ven- 
ture in  life  !  From  long  habit  of  de- 
pendent growth  the  root  fibres  of  his 
being  were  clasped  about  her,  as  a  tree 
holds  fast  for  life  and  support  to  some 
isolated  rock,  and  neither  he  nor  she 
was  any  more  conscious  than  the  tree 

or  rock  of  the  economic  value  which 
he  took  out  of  their  relation.  On  his 
part,  it  was  a  profound  attachment,  — 
merely  an  attachment ;  on  hers  a  pure 
and  simple,  venerative  love.  Women 
expect  much  from  an  idol  and  get  lit- 
tle, but  believe  they  get  everything ; 
and  now  and  then,  even  as  to  the  best 
a  woman  can  set  up,  she  has  cankering 

"  Brother,"  said  Miss  Wendell,  cheer- 
fully, "  I  was  thinking,  before  you  came 
in,  how  thankful  we  should  be  for  all  our 
life,  just  now.  You  are  getting  some 
practice,"  —  then  observing  his  face, 
"  not  all  you  will  have,  you  know,  but 
enough,  with  the  hospital,  to  let  us  live, 
oh,  so  pleasantly  !  "  Patting  his  cheek 
tenderly,  she  added,  "  And  best  of  all 
for  me,  I  feel  that  you  are  not  worried, 
that  you  are  having  a  chance,  at  last." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  answered,  "  I  know, 
I  know  !  I  only  hope  it  will  continue." 

"  Why  should  it  not  ?  By  the  time 
you  cease  to  be  an  assistant  surgeon  — 
I  mean,  when  this  horrible  war  is  over 
—  you  will  have  a  good  hold  on  prac- 
tice, and  you  will  only  have  to  love  your 
books  and  microscope  and  botany  a  lit- 
tle less,  and  study  human  beings  more." 

"  I  hardly  know  if  they  are  worth 
the  studying  !  But  never  mind  me.  I 
am  cross  to-night." 

"  Oh,  no,  that  you  are  not.  I  won't 
have  you  say  that !  You  are  tired,  I 
dare  say,  and  troubled  about  all  those 
poor  fellows  in  the  hospital." 

Wendell  moved  uneasily.  She  was 
sitting  on  the  arm  of  his  chair,  and  run- 
ning her  hand  caressingly  through  his 
hair,  which  was  brown,  and  broke  into  a 
wave  of  half  curl  around  his  forehead. 

Her  consciousness  as  to  much  of  her 
brother's  outer  range  of  feelings  was  al- 
most instinctive,  although,  of  course,  it 
misled  her  often  enough. 

"  I  knew  that  was  it,"  she  said,  with 
a  loving  sense  of  appreciation.  "  I  was 
sure  it  was  that.  What  has  happened 
at  the  hospital  ?  I  heard  Dr.  Lagrange 


In  War  Time. 


call  you  back.  Oh,  it  was  n't  about  be- 
ing late  —  and  such  a  hot  day,  too  !  " 

"  No,  I  was  n't  bothered  about  that. 
It  was  about  a  sudden  death,  that  hap- 
pened just  before  I  left.  You  may  re- 
member that  officer  in  the  far  corner  of 
the  ward." 

"What,  that  nice  young  fellow,  a 
mere  boy !  Oh,  Ezra,"  she  added,  after 
a  pause,  "I  sometimes  thank  God,  in 
these  war  times,  that  I  am  not  a  mother  ! 
Do  you  think  it 's  wrong  to  feel  that 
way,  brother  ?  " 

"  Nonsense,  Ann  !  You  might  find 
enough  to  annoy  yourself  about,  besides 
that.  When  some  one  comes  for  sister 
Ann  you  can  begin  to  think  about  the 
matter.  What  's  the  use  of  settling 
theoretical  cases  ?  There  's  quite  enough 
of  real  bother  in  life  that  one  can't  es- 
cape, and  is  forced  to  reason  about." 

Ann  arose,  her  eyes  filling.  "  Yes," 
she  said,  "  yes  —  I  dare  say,"  her 
thoughts  for  a  moment  far  off,  recalling 
a  time  when,  years  before,  she  had  been 
obliged  to  decide  whether  she  should 
give  up  her  life  with  her  brother  and 
father,  and  go  to  the  West  to  share  the 
love  and  wealthier  surroundings  of  a 
man  whose  claim  upon  her  was,  she  felt, 
an  honest  and  loving  one.  Had  he  too 
been  poor,  and  had  she  been  called  by 
him  to  bear  a  life  of  struggle,  it  is  possi- 
ble she  might  have  yielded.  As  it  was, 
habitual  affection  and  some  vague  sense 
of  her  power  to  fill  the  wants  of  her 
brother's  existence  made  the  woman's 
craving  for  self-sacrifice,  as  a  proof  to 
herself  of  the  quality  of  her  love,  suffi- 
cient to  decide  her,  and  she  had  turned 
away  gently,  but  decisively,  from  a  life 
of  ease.  Yet  sometimes  all  the  lost 
loveliness  of  a  mother's  duties  over- 
whelmed her  for  a  dreaming  moment. 
•"  Yes,"  she  said,  at  last,  "  you  are  right. 
It's  always  best  to  live  in  the  day 
that  is  with  us.  But  what  I  wanted  to 
say  was  that  you  must  not  let  such  in- 
evitable things  as  a  death  no  one  could 
have  prevented  overcome  you  so  as  to 

unsettle  you  and  lessen  your  usefulness 
to  others." 

"  Oh,  no,  of  course  not !  "  He  felt 
annoyed :  this  lad  pursued  him  like  a 
ghost.  "  Don't  let  us  talk  of  it  any 
more,"  he  said.  "  I  broke  my  meer- 
schaum, coming  home." 

"  Oh,  did  you  ?  But  I  'm  very  sorry, 

"  Yes ;  it  seemed  like  the  death  of 
an  old  friend." 

"  Don't  you  think  that  is  a  great  deal 
to  say,  —  an  old  friend  ?  " 

"  Not  half  enough." 

She  saw  that  he  was  annoyed,  and, 
knowing  well  the  nature  of  the  mood 
which  possessed  him,  returned. 

"  Ah,  well,  brother,  we  will  buy  an- 
other friend  to-morrow,  and  age  him  as 
fast  as  possible.  Bless  me,  it  is  ten 
o'clock ! "  and  she  began  to  move  about 
the  room,  and  to  put  things  in  the  usual 
neat  state  in  which  she  kept  their  sit- 
ting-room. The  books  were  rearranged, 
the  bits  of  thread  or  paper  carefully 
picked  up,  a  chair  or  two  pushed  back, 
a  crooked  table  cover  drawn  into  place. 

This  was  a  small  but  regularly  re- 
peated torment  to  Wendell.  He  did 
not  dislike  a  neat  parlor, —  nay,  would 
have  felt  the  want  of  neatness ;  but 
this  little  bustle  and  stir  at  the  calmest 
time  of  the  day  disturbed  him,  while  he 
knew  that  in  this,  as  in  some  other  mat- 
ters, Ann  was  immovable,  so  that  as  a 
rule  he  had  ceased  to  resist,  as  he  usual- 
ly did  cease  to  resist  where  the  opposi- 
tion was  positive  and  enduring. 

This  time,  however,  he  exclaimed, 
"  I  do  wish,  Ann,  for  once,  you  would  go 
to  bed  quietly  ! " 

"  Why,  of  course,  you  dear  old  boy  ! 
I  just  want  to  straighten  things  up  a  lit- 
tle, and  then  to  read  to  you  a  bit." 

"  I  would  like  that.  Read  me  Brown- 
ing's Saul." 

"  Yes,"  she  returned  cheerfully,  "  that 
is  always  good  ; "  and  so  read  aloud  with 
simple  and  earnest  pleasure  that  exqui- 
site poem. 

1884.]  In  War 

It  soothed  the  man  as  tne  harp  of  the 
boy  shepherd  soothed  the  king. 

"  What  noble  verse  !  "  he  said. 
"Read  again,  Ann,  that  part  beginning, 
'And  the  joy  of  mere  living,'  and  humor 
the  rhythm  a  little.  I  think  it  is  a  mis- 
take of  most  readers  to  affect  to  follow 
the  sense  so  as  to  make  a  poem  seem  in 
the  reading  like  prose,  as  if  the  rhythm 
were  not  meant  to  be  a  kind  of  musical 
accompaniment  of  exalted  thought  and 
sentiment.  How  you  hear  the  harp  in 
it !  I  never  knew  anybody  to  speak  of 
the  pleasure  a  poet  must  have  in  writ- 
ing such  verse  as  that.  It  must  sing  to 
him  as  sweetly  as  to  any  one  else,  and 
more  freshly." 

"  Yes,"  said  Ann.  "  I  have  seen 
somewhere  that  everybody  who  writes 
verse  thinks  his  own  delightful." 

"  No  doubt,  —  as  every  woman's  last 
baby  is  the  most  charming.  But  I 
should  think  that  neither  motherhood 
nor  paternity  of  verse  could  quite  make 
the  critical  faculty  impossible.  Shake- 
speare must  have  been  able  to  appreciate 
Hamlet  duly." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Ann. 

Her  brother  often  got  quite  above  her 
in  his  talk,  and  then  she  either  gave  up 
with  a  sort  of  gasp,  as  the  air  into  which 
he  rose  became  too  thin  for  her  intel- 
lectual lungs,  or  else  she  made  more  or 
less  successful  effort  to  follow  his  flights, 
or  at  least  to  deceive  him  into  the  belief 
that  she  did  so. 

Her  brother  was  fond  of  Hamlet, 
which  has  been,  and  ever  will  be,  the  fa- 
vorite riddle  of  many  thoughtful  men. 
He  liked  to  read  it  to  her,  and  to  have 
it  read  to  him.  She  had  suddenly  now 
one  of  those  brief  inspirations  which  as- 
tonish us  at  times  in  unanalytic  people. 
She  said,  "  I  sometimes  think  Hamlet 
was  like  you,  —  a  little  like  you,  broth- 
er !" 

Ezra  looked  up  at  his  sister  with 
amused  surprise.  Human  nature,  he  re- 
flected to  himself,  is  inexhaustible,  and 
we  may  rest  sure  that  on  Methuselah's 

Time.  11 

nine  hundred  and  sixty-ninth  birthday 
he  might  have  startled  his  family  by 
some  novelty  of  word  or  deed. 

"  I  hardly  know  if  it  be  a  compli- 
ment," he  said  aloud,  with  a  little  smile. 
"  I  should  like  to  be  sure  of  what  Ham- 
let's sister  would  have  said  of  him.  Go 
to  bed  and  think  about  it !  " 

After  Ann  had  left  him,  Wendell  him- 
self retired  to  what  was  known  as  his 
office,  a  back  room  with  a  southern  out- 
look on  the  garden.  Here  were  a  few 
medical  books,  two  or  three  metaphysical 
treatises,  a  mixture  of  others  on  the  use 
of  the  microscope  and  on  botany,  with 
odd  volumes  of  the  older  and  less  known 
dramatists,  and  a  miscellaneous  collec- 
tion representing  science  and  sentiment. 
On  the  table  was  a  small  microscope, 
and  a  glass  dish  or  two,  with  minute 
water  plants,  making  a  nursery  for  some 
of  the  lesser  forms  of  animal  and  vege- 
table life.  Jn  a  few  minutes  Wendell, 
absorbed,  was  gazing  into  the  microscope 
at  the  tiny  dramas  which  the  domestic 
life  of  a  curious  pseudopod  presented. 
He  soon  began  to  draw  it  with  much 
adroitness.  It  is  possible  for  some  men 
to  pursue  every  object,  their  duties  and 
their  pleasures,  with  equal  energy,  nor 
is  it  always  true  that  the  Jack-of-all- 
trades  is  master  of  none ;  but  it  was  true 
of  this  man  that,  however  well  he  did 
things,  —  and  he  did  many  things  well, 
—  he  did  none  with  sufficient  intensity 
of  purpose,  or  with  such  steadiness  of 
effort  as  to  win  high  success  in  any  one 
of  them. 

It  was  nearly  twelve  o'clock  when  he 
was  startled  by  hearing  his  sister  call, 
"  Ezra,  Ezra !  Do  go  to  bed.  You 
will  oversleep  yourself  in  the  morning." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  he  answered, 
quite  accustomed  to  her  warning  care. 
"  Good-night.  I  won't  sit  up  any  later. 
It  is  all  right." 

Ann  sighed,  as  she  stood  barefooted 
on  the  stairs,  and  had  she  known  Mr. 
Pickwick  might  have  shared  his  inward 

£  Weir  Mitchell. 


Chester  Streets. 



IF  it  be  true,  as  some  poets  think, 
that  every  spot  on  earth  is  full  of  poe- 
try, then  it  is  certainly  also  true  that 
each  place  has  its  own  distinctive  meas- 
ure ;  an  indigenous  metre,  so  to  speak, 
in  which,  and  in  which  only,  its  poetry 
will  be  truly  set  or  sung. 

The  more  one  reflects  on  this,  in  con- 
nection with  the  spots  and  places  he  has 
known  best  in  the  world,  the  truer  it 
seems.  Memories  and  impressions  group 
themselves  in  subtle  coordinations  to 
prove  it.  There  are  surely  woods  which 
are  like  stately  sonnets,  and  others  of 
which  the  truth  would  best  be  told  in 
tender  lyrics  ;  brooks  which  are  jocund 
songs,  and  mountains  which  are  Odes  to 
Immortality.  Of  cities  and  towns  it  is 
perhaps  even  truer  than  of  woods  and 
mountains  ;  certainly,  no  less  true.  For 
instance,  it  would  be  a  bold  poet  who 
should  attempt  to  set  pictures  of  Rome 
in  any  strain  less  solemn  than  the  epic ; 
and  is  it  too  strong  a  thing  to  say  that 
only  a  foolish  one  would  think  of  fram- 
ing a  Venice  glimpse  or  memory  in  any 
thing  save  dreamy  songs,  with  dream- 
iest refrains  ?  Endless  vistas  of  reverie 
open  to  the  imagination  once  entered  on 
the  road  of  this  sort  of  fancy,  —  rever- 
ies which  play  strange  pranks  with  both 
time  and  place,  endow  the  dreamer  with 
a  sort  of  post  facto  second  sight,  and 
leave  him,  when  suddenly  roused,  as  lost 
as  if  he  had  been  asleep  for  a  century. 
For  sensations  of  this  kind  Chester  is  a 
"  hede  and  chefe  cyte."  Simply  to  walk 
its  streets  is  to  step  to  time  and  tune  of 
ballads  ;  the  very  air  about  one's  ears 
goes  lilting  with  them  ;  the  walls  ring ; 
the  gates  echo  ;  choruses  rollick  round 
corners,  —  ballads,  always  ballads,  or,  if 
not  a  ballad,  a  play,  none  the  less  live- 
ly ;  a  play  with  pageants  and  delightful 

Such  are  the  measure  and  metre  to- 

day of  "  The  Cyte  of  Legyons,  that  is 
Chestre  in  the  marches  of  Englonde, 
towards  Wales,  betwegne  two  armes  of 
the  see,  that  bee  named  Dee  and  Mersee. 
Thys  cyte  in  tyme  of  Britons  was  hede 
and  chefe  cyte  of  Venedocia,  that  is 
North  Wales.  Thys  cyte  in  Brytyshe 
speech  bete  Carthleon,  Chestre  in  Eng- 
lyshe,  and  Cyte  of  Legyons  also.  For 
there  laye  a  wynter,  the  legyons  that 
Julius  Cassar  sent  to  wyne  Irlonde.  And 
after,  Claudius  Caesar  sent  legyons  out 
of  the  cyte  for  to  wynn  the  Islands  that 
bee  called  Orcades.  Thys  cyte  hath 
plenty  of  cyne  land,  of  corn,  of  flesh, 
and  specyally  of  samon.  Thys  cyte  re- 
ceyveth  grate  marchandyse  and  sendeth 
out  also.  Northumbres  destroyed  this 
cyte  but  Elfleda  Lady  of  Mercia  bylded 
it  again  and  made  it  mouch  more." 

This  is  what  was  written  of  Ches- 
ter, more  than  six  hundred  years  ago, 
by  one  Ranulph  Higden,  a  Chester  Ab- 
bey monk,  —  him  who  wrote  those  old 
miracle  plays,  except  for  which  we  very 
like  had  never  had  such  a  thing  as  a 
play  at  all,  and  William  Shakespeare 
had  turned  out  no  better  than  many  an- 
other Stratford  man. 

All  good  Americans  who  reach  Eng- 
land go  to  Chester.  They  go  to  see 
the  cathedral,  and  to  buy  old  Queen 
Anne  furniture.  The  cathedral  is  very 
good  in  its  way,  the  way  of  all  cathe- 
drals, and  the  old  Queen  Anne  furniture 
is  now  quite  well  made ;  but  it  is  a  mar- 
vel that  either  cathedral  or  shop  can 
long  hold  a  person  away  from  Chester 
streets.  One  cannot  go  amiss  in  them  ; 
at  each  step  he  is,  as  it  were,  button- 
holed by  a  gable,  an  arch,  a  pavement, 
a  doorsill,  a  sign,  or  a  gate  with  a  story 
to  tell.  A  story,  indeed  ?  A  hundred, 
or  more  :  and  if  anybody  doubts  them, 
or  has  by  reason  of  old  age,  or  over-oc- 
cupation with  other  matters,  got  them 


Chester  Streets. 


confused  in  his  mind,  all  1>£  has  to  do 
is  to  step  into  a  public  }  "  ?ry,  which 
is  kept  in  a  very  private  tuiy",  in  a  by- 
street, by  two  aged  Cestrian  citizens 
and  a  parish  boy.  Here,  if  he  can  con- 
vince these  venerable  Cestrian s  of  his  re- 
spectability, he  may  go  a-junketing  by 
himself  in  that  delicious  feast  of  an  old 
book,  the  Vale-Royale  of  England,  pub- 
lished in  London  in  1656,  and  written, 
I  believe,  a  half  century  or  so  earlier. 

Never  was  any  bit  of  country  more 
praised  than  this  beautiful  Chester 
County,  "  pleasant  and  abounding  in 
plenteousness  of  all  things  needful  and 
necessary  for  man's  use,  insomuch  that 
it  merited  and  had  the  name  of  the 
Vale-Royale  of  England." 

"  The  ayr  is  very  wholesome,  inso- 
much that  the  people  of  the  Country 
are  seldome  infected  with  Diseases  or 
Sicknesses  ;  neither  do  they  use  the  help 
of  the  Physicians  nothing  so  much  as  in 
other  countries.  For  when  any  of  them 
are  sick  they  make  him  a  Posset  and 
tye  a  kerchief  on  his  head,  and  if  that 
will  not  amend  him,  then  God  be  mer- 
ciful to  him  !  "  says  the  old  writer.  And 
of  the  river  Dee,  — 

"  To  which  water  no  man  can  express 
how  much  this  ancient  city  hath  been  be- 
holden ;  nay,  I  suppose  if  I  should  call  it 
the  Mother,  the  Nurse,  the  Maintainer, 
the  Advancer  and  Preserver  thereof,  I 
should  not  greatly  erre."  And  again,  of 
the  shifting  "  sands  o'  Dee,"  this  ancient 
and  devout  man,  taking  quite  another 
view  than  that  of  the  thoughtless  or 
pensive  lyrists,  later,  says,  — 

"  The  changing  and  shifting  of  the 
water  gave  some  occasion  to  the  Britons 
in  that  Infancy  of  the  Christian  Relig- 
ion to  attribute  some  divine  honor  and 
estimation  to  the  said  water :  though  I 
cannot  believe  that  to  be  any  cause  of 
the  name  of  it." 

His  pious  deduction  from  the  exceed- 
ing beauty  of  the  situation  of  the  city 
is  that  it  is  "  worthy,  according  to  the 
Eye,  to  be  called  a  city  guarded  with 

Watch  of  Holy  and  Religious  men,  and 
through  the  Mercy  of  our  Saviour  al- 
ways fenced  and  fortified  with  the  mer- 
ciful assistance  of  the  Almighty."  To 
keep  it  thus  guarded,  the  monks  of 
Vale-Royale  did  their  best.  Witness 
the  terms  in  which  their  grant  was 
couched :  — 

"  All  the  mannours,  churches,  lands 
and  tenements  aforesaid,  in  free  pure 
and  perpetual  alms  forever ;  with  Hom- 
ages, Rents,  Demesnes,  Villenages,  Ser- 
vices of  Free  Holders  and  Bond,  with 
Villains  and  their  Families,  Advow- 
sons,  Wards,  Reliefs,  Escheates,  Woods, 
Plains,  Meadows,  Pastures,  Wayes, 
Pathes,  Heaths,  Turfs,  Forests,  Waters, 
Ponds,  Parks,  Fishing,  Mills  in  Granges, 
Cottages  within  Borough  and  without, 
and  in  all  other  places  with  all  Eas- 
ments,  Liberties,  Franchises  and  Free 
Customs  any  way  belonging  to  the  afore- 
said Mannours,  Churches,  lands  and 

Plainly,  if  the  devil  or  any  of  his  fol- 
lowers were  caught  in  the  Vale-Royale, 
they  could  be  legally  ejected  as  trespas- 

He  was  not,  however,  without  an  eye 
to  worldly  state,  this  devout  writer,  for 
he  speaks  with  evident  pride  of  the  fine 
show  kept  up  by  the  mayor  of  Ches- 
ter :  — 

"  The  Estate  that  the  Mayor  of  Ches- 
ter keepeth  is  great.  For  he  hath  both 
Sword  Bearer  and  Mace  Bearer  Ser- 
geants, with  their  silver  maces,  in  as 
good  and  decent  order  as  in  any  other 
city  in  England.  His  housekeeping  ac- 
cordingly ;  but  not  so  chargeable  as  in 
all  other  cities,  because  all  thing  are  bet- 
ter cheap  there.  .  .  .  He  remaineth, 
most  part  of  the  day  at  a  place  called 
the  Pendice  which  is  a  brave  place 
builded  for  the  purpose  at  the  high 
Crosse  under  St.  Peters  Church,  and  in 
the  middest  of  the  city,  of  such  a  sort 
that  a  man  may  stand  therein  and  see 
into  the  markets  or  four  principal  streets 
of  the  city." 


Chester  Streets. 


Nevertheless,  there  was  once  a  mayor 
of  Chester  who  did  not  see  all  he  ought 
to  have  seen  in  the  principal  streets  of 
the  city  :  for  his  own  daughter,  out  play- 
ing ball  "  with  other  maids,  in  the  sum- 
mer time,  in  Pepur  Street,"  stole  away 
from  her  companions,  and  ran  off  with 
her  sweetheart,  through  one  of  the  city 
gates,  at  the  foot  of  that  street,  which 
gate  the  enraged  mayor  ordered  closed 
up  forever,  as  if  that  would  do  any 
good ;  and  some  sharp-tongued  and  sen- 
sible Cestriau  immediately  phrased  the 
illogical  action  in  a  proverb  :  "  When 
the  daughter  is  stolen,  shut  the  Pepur 
gate."  This  saying  is  to  be  heard  in 
Chester  to  this  day,  and  is  no  doubt 
lineal  ancestor  of  our  own  broader  apo- 
thegm, "  When  the  mare  's  stolen,  lock 
the  stable." 

There  are  many  lively  stories  about 
mayors  of  Chester.  There  was  a  mayor 
in  1617  who  made  a  very  learned  speech 
to  King  James,  when  he  rode  in  through 
East  Gate,  with  all  the  train  soldiers  of 
the  city  standing  in  order,  "  each  com- 
pany with  their  ensigns  in  seemly  sort," 
the  array  stretching  up  both  sides  of 
East  Gate  Street.  This  mayor's  name 
was  Charles  Fitton.  He  delivered  his 
speech  to  the  king ;  presented  to  him  a 
"  standing  cup  with  a  cover  double  gilt, 
and  therein  a  hundred  jacobins  of  gold ; " 
likewise  delivered  to  him  the  city's 
sword,  and  afterward  bore  it  before  him, 
in  the  procession.  But  when  King  James 
proposed,  in  return  for  all  these  civilities, 
to  make  a  knight  of  him,  Charles  Fitton 
sturdily  refused  ;  which  was  a  thing  so 
strange  for  its  day  and  generation  that 
one  is  instantly  possessed  by  a  fire  of 
curiosity  to  know  what  Charles  Fitton's 
reasons  could  have  been  for  such  con- 
tempt of  a  knight's  title.  No  doubt 
there  is  a  story  hanging  thereby,  — 
something  to  do  with  a  lady-love,  not 
unlikely  ;  and  a  fine  ballad  it  would 
make,  if  one  but  knew  it.  The  records, 
however,  state  only  the  bare  fact. 

Then  there  was,  a  hundred  years  later 

than  this,  a^nan  who  got  to  be  mayor  of 
Chester  by,  very  strange  chance.  He 
was  a  ribbon  weaver,  in  a  small  way, 
kept  a  shop  in  Shoemaker's  Row,  and 
lived  in  a  little  house  backing  on  the 
Falcon  Inn.  All  of  a  sudden  he  blos- 
somed out  into  a  rich  silk  mercer ; 
bought  a  fine  estate  just  outside  the 
city,  built  a  grand  house,  and  generally 
assumed  the  airs  and  manners  of  a  dig- 
nitary. As  is  the  way  of  the  world  now, 
so  then :  people  soon  took  him  at  his 
surface  showing,  forgot  all  about  the 
mystery  of  his  sudden  wealth,  and  pres- 
ently made  him  mayor  of  Chester.  Af- 
terward it  came  out,  though  never  in 
such  fashion  that  anything  was  done 
about  it,  how  the  mayor  got  his  money. 
Just  before  the  mysterious  rise  in  his 
fortunes,  a  great  London  banking  house 
had  been  robbed  of  a  large  sum  of  money 
by  one  of  its  clerks,  who  ran  away, 
came  to  Chester,  and  went  into  hiding 
at  the  Falcon  Inn.  He  was  tracked  and 
overtaken  late  one  night.  Hearing  his 
pursuers  on  the  stairs,  he  sprang  from 
his  bed  and  threw  the  treasure  bags 
out  of  the  window,  plump  into  the  rib- 
bon weaver's  back  yard;  where  the  dis- 
appointed constables  naturally  never 
thought  of  looking,  and  went  back  to 
London  much  chagrined,  carrying  only 
the  man,  and  no  money.  None  of  the 
money  having  been  found  on  the  robber, 
he  escaped  conviction,  but  subsequently, 
for  another  offense,  was  tried,  convicted, 
and  executed.  I  take  it  for  granted  that 
it  must  have  been  he  who  told  in  his 
last  hours  what  he  did  with  the  money 
bags :  for  certainly  no  one  else  knew ; 
that  is,  no  one  else  except  Mr.  Samuel 
Jarvis,  the  ribbon  weaver,  who,  much 
astonished,  had  picked  them  up  before 
daylight,  the  morning  after  they  had 
been  thrown  into  his  back  yard.  It  is 
certain  that  he  kept  his  mouth  shut, 
and  proceeded  to  turn  the  money  to  the 
best  possible  account  in  the  shortest  pos- 
sible time.  But  an  evil  fate  seemed  to 
attach  to  the  dishonestly  gotten  riches  ; 


Chesttr  Streets. 


Jarvis  dying  without  issue,  his  estate  all 
went  to  a  man  named  Doe,  "  a  gardener, 
at  Greg's  Pit,"  whose  sons  and  grand- 
sons spent  the  last  penny  of  it  in  riot- 
ous living.  So  there  is  now  "  nothing 
to  show  for  "  that  money,  for  the  steal- 
ing of  which  one  man  was  tried  for  his 
life,  and  another  man  made  mayor  of 
Chester  ;  which  would  all  come  in  cap- 
itally in  a  ballad,  if  a  ballad-monger 

Of  the  famous  Chester  Rows,  nobody 
has  ever  yet  contrived  to  give  a  descrip- 
tion intelligible  to  one  who  had  not 
seen  them.  The  more  familiarly  they 
are  known,  the  more  fantastic  and  be- 
wildering they  seem,  and  the  less  one  is 
sure  how  to  speak  of  them.  Whether 
it  is  that  the  sidewalk  goes  up-stairs,  or 
the  front  second-story  bed-room  comes 
down  into  the  street ;  whether  the  street 
itself  be  in  the  basement  or  the  cellar, 
or  the  sidewalk  be  on  the  roofs  of  the 
houses ;  where  any  one  of  them  all 
begins  or  leaves  off,  it  would  be  a  cour- 
ageous narrator  that  tried  to  explain. 
They  appear  to  have  been  as  much  of  a 
puzzle  two  hundred  years  ago  as  to-day  ; 
for  the  devout  old  chronicler  of  the  Vale- 
Royale,  essaying  to  describe  them,  wrote 
the  following  paragraph,  which,  delicious 
as  it  is  to  those  who  know  Chester,  I 
think  must  be  a  stumbliug-block  and 
foolishness  to  those  who  do  not.  He 
says  there  is  "  a  singular  property  of 
praise  to  this  city,  whereof  I  know  not 
the  like  of  any  other  :  there  be  towards 
the  street  fair  rooms,  both  for  shops  and 
dwelling-houses,  to  which  there  is  rather 
a  descent  than  an  equal  height  with  the 
floor  or  pavement  of  the  street.  Yet 
the  principal  dwelling-houses  and  shops 
for  the  chiefest  Trades  are  mounted  a 
story  higher,  and  before  the  Doors  and 
Entries  a  continued  Row,  on  either  side 
the  street,  for  people  to  pass  to  and 
fro  all  along  the  said  houses,  out  of  all 
annoyance  of  Rain,  or  other  foul  weath- 
er, with  stairs  fairly  built,  and  neatly 
maintained  to  step  down  out  of  those 

Rowes  into  the  open  streets  :  almost  at 
every  second  house  :  and  the  said  Rowes 
built  over  the  head  with  such  of  the 
Chambers  and  Rooms  for  the  most  part 
as  are  the  best  rooms  in  every  one  of 
the  said  houses. 

"  It  approves  itself  to  be  of  most  ex- 
cellent use,  both  for  dry  and  easy  pas- 
sage of  all  sorts  of  people  upon  their 
necessary  occasions,  as  also  for  the  send- 
ing away,  of  all  or  the  most  Passengers 
on  foot  from  the  passage  of  the  street, 
amongst  laden  and  empty  Carts,  load- 
en  and  travelling  Horses,  lumbering 
Coaches,  Beer  Carts,  Beasts,  Sheep, 
Swine,  and  all  annoyances,  which  what 
a  confused  trouble  it  makes  in  other 
cities,  especially  where  great  stirring  is, 
there  's  none  that  can  be  ignorant." 

He  also  suggests  another  advantage 
of  this  arrangement,  which  seems  by  no 
means  unlikely  to  have  been  part  of  its 
original  reason  for  being,  namely,  that 
"  when  the  enemy  entered  they  might 
avoid  the  danger  of  the  Horsemen,  and 
might  annoy  the  Enemies  as  they  passed 
through  the  Streets."  Probably  in  this 
writer's  day  the  marvel  of  the  construc- 
tion of  the  Rows  was  even  greater  than 
it  is  now  ;  in  many  instances  the  first 
story  was  excavated  out  of  solid  rock, 
so  you  began  by  going  down-stairs  at  the 
outset.  These  first  stories  of  the  an- 
cient Cestrians  are  beneath  the  cellars 
of  the  Rows  to-day  ;  and  every  now  and 
then,  in  deepening  a  vault  or  cellar- 
way,  workmen  come  on  old  Roman  al- 
tars, built  there  by  the  "  Legyous  "  of 
Julius  or  Claudius  Caesar,  dedicated  to 
"  Nymphs  and  Fountains,"  or  other  ge- 
m'i  of  the  day  ;  baths,  too,  with  their  pil- 
lars and  perforated  tiles  still  in  place,  as 
they  were  in  the  days  when  cleanly  and 
luxurious  Roman  soldiers  took  Turkish 
baths  there,  after  hot  victories.  Know- 
ing about  these  lower  strata  adds  a  weird 
charm  to  the  fascination  of  strolling 
along  in  the  balconies  above,  looking  in, 
now  at  a  jeweler's  window,  now  at  a 
smart  haberdashery  shop,  now  at  some 


Chester  Streets. 


neat  housekeeper's  bedroom  window, 
now  into  a  mysterious  chink-like  pas- 
sage-way winding  off  into  the  heart  of 
the  building ;  and  then,  perhaps,  pres- 
to! descending  a  staircase,  a  few  feet, 
to  another  tier  of  similar  shop  windows, 
domiciles,  garret  alleys,  and  dormer-win- 
dow bazars  ;  and  the  next  thing,  plump 
down  again,  ten  feet  or  so  more,  into 
the  very  street  itself.  Indeed  are  they, 
as  the  Vale-Royale  says,  "  a  singular 
property  of  praise  to  this  city,  whereof 
I  know  not  the  like  of  any  other." 

One  manifest  use  and  enjoyment  fof 
this  medley  of  in  and  out,  up  and  down, 
above  and  below,  balconies,  basements, 
attics,  dormer  windows,  gables,  and  case- 
ments, the  old  chronicler  failed  to  men- 
tion, but  there  can  never  have  been  a 
day  or  a  generation  which  has  not  dis- 
covered it,  and  that    is  the  convenient 
overlooking  of  all  that  goes  on  in  the 
street  below.     What  rare  and  comfort- 
able nooks  for  the  spying  on  processions, 
and  all  manner  of  shows  and  spectacles  ! 
To  sit  snug  in  one's  best  chamber,  ten 
feet  above  the  street,  ten  feet  out  into  it, 
with  windows  looking  up  and  down  the 
highway,  —  what  vantage  it  must  have 
been  in  the  days  when  the  Miracle  Plays 
went   wheeling    along   from    street    to 
street,  played  on  double  scaffolded  carts  ; 
the  players  attiring  themselves  on  the 
lower  scaffold,  while  the  play  was  pro- 
gressing on  the  upper  !     They  began  to 
do  this  in  Chester  in  the  year  of  our 
Lord  1268.     There  were   generally  in 
use    at   one   time,  twenty-four   of    the 
wheeled    stages  :    as  soon  as    one  play 
was  over,  its  stage  was  wheeled  along  to 
the   next  street,  and   another   took  its 
place.  The  plays  were  called  Mysteries, 
and  were  devised  for  the  giving  of  in- 
struction in  the  Old  and  New  Testament, 
which  had  been  so  long  sealed  books  to 
the  people.    Luther  gave  them  his  sanc- 
tion, saying,  "  Such  spectacles  often  do 
more  good  and  produce  more  impression 
than  sermons." 

The  old  chronicles  are  full  of  quaint 

and    interesting    entries   in    regard    to 

these  plays.     The  different  trades  and 

guilds  of   the  city  represented  different 

acts  in  the  holy  dramas  :  — 

The  Barkers  and  Tanners,  The  Fall 

of  Lucifer. 

Drapers  and  Hosiers,  The  Creation  of 

the  World. 

Drawers  of  Dee  and  Water  Leaders, 

Noe  and  his  Shippe. 

Barbers,  Wax  Chandlers,  and  Leeches, 

Abraham  and  Isaac. 

Cappers,  Wire  Drawers,  and  Pinners, 

Balak  and  Balaam  with  Moses. 

Wrights,  Slaters,  Tylers,  Daubers,  and 

Thatchers,  The  Nativity. 

In  1574  these  plays  were  played  for 
the  last  time.  There  had  been  several 
attempts  before  to  suppress  them.  One 
Chester  mayor,  Henry  Hardware  by 
name,  being  a  "  godly  and  zealous  man, 
caused  the  gyauntes  in  the  midsomer 
show  to  be  broken  up,  not  to  go ;  and 
the  devil  in  his  feathers  he  put  awaye, 
and  the  caps,  and  the  canes,  and  dragon 
and  the  naked  boys." 

But  it  was  reserved  for  another  may- 
or, Sir  John  Savage,  Knight,  to  have 
the  honor  of  finally  putting  an  end  to 
the  pageants.  "  Sir  John  Savage,  knight, 
being  Mayor  of  Chester,  which  was  the 
laste  time  they  were  played,  and  we 
praise  God,  and  praye  that  we  see  not 
the  like  profanation  of  holy  Scriptures, 
but  O,  the  mercie  of  God  for  the  time 
of  our  ignorance  !  "  says  an  old  history, 
written  in  1595. 

At  intervals  between  these  pious  sup- 
pressions, carnal  and  pleasure  -  loving 
persons  made  great  efforts  to  restore  the 
plays  ;  and  there  are  some  very  curious 
accounts  of  expenditures  made  in  Ches- 
ter, under  mayors  less  godly  than  Hard- 
ware and  Savage,  for  the  rehabilitation 
of  some  of  the  old  properties  of  the 
sacred  pageants  :  "  For  finding  all  the 
materials  with  the  workmanship  of  the 
four  great  giants,  all  to  be  made  new, 
as  neere  as  may  be,  lyke  as  they  were 
before,  at  five  pounds  a  giant,  the  least 


Chester  Streets. 


that  can  be,  and  four  men  to  carry  them 
at  two  shillings  and  sixpence  each." 

These  redoubtable  giants,  which  could 
not  be  made  at  less  than  five  pounds 
apiece,  were  constructed  out  of  "  hoops, 
deal  boards,  nails,  pasteboards,  scale- 
board,  paper  of  various  sorts,  buckram 
size  cloth,  old  sheets  for  their  bodies, 
sleeves  and  shirts,  tinsille,  tinfoil,  gold 
and  silver  leaf,  colors  of  different  kinds, 
and  glue  in,  abundance."  Last,  not 
least,  came  the  item,  "  For  arsknick  to 
put  into  the  paste  to  save  the  giants 
from  being  eaten  by  the  rats,  one  shil- 
ling and  fourpeuce." 

It  is  at  first  laughable  to  think  of  a 
set  of  city  fathers  summing  up  such  ac- 
counts as  these  for  a  paper  baby  show, 
but  upon  second  thought  the  question 
occurs  whether  city  funds  are  any  better 
administered  in  these  days.  '  The  paper 
giants,  feathered  devils,  and  dragons 
were  cheaper  than  champagne  suppers 
and  stationery  nowadays  in  •'  hede  and 
chefe  "  cities. 

When  the  Mystery  Plays  were  finally 
forbidden,  it  seemed  dull  times  for  a 
while  in  Chester  ;  but  at  last  the  people 
contrived  an  ingenious  resuscitation  of 
the  old  amusements  under  new  names, 
and  with  new  themes,  to  which  nobody 
could  object.  They  dramatized  old  sto- 
ries, legends,  histories  of  kings,  and  the 
like.  The  story  of  ^Eneas  and  Queen 
Dido  was  one  of  the  first  played.  No 
doubt  all  the  "  gyauntes  "  and  hobble- 
de-horses  which  had  not  been  eaten  up 
by  rats  and  moths  came  in  as  effective- 
ly in  the  second  dispensation  as  in  the 
first.  The  only  one  of  the  later  plays 
of  which  an  account  has  been  preserved 
was  played  in  1608,  in  honor  of  the  old- 
est son  of  James  L,  by  the  sheriff  of 
Chester,  who  himself  wrote  a  flaming 
account  of  it. 

He  says,  "  Zeal  produced  it,  love  de- 
vized it,  boyes  performed  it,  men  be- 
held it,  and  none  but  fools  dispraised 
it.  ...  The  chiefest  part  of  this  peo- 
ple-pleasing spectacle  consisted  in  three 

VOL.  LIU.  —  NO.  315.  2 

Bees,  that  is,  Boyes,  Beastes,  and  Bels." 
Allegory,  mythology,  music,  fireworks, 
and  ground  and  lofty  tumbling  were 
jumbled  together  in  a  fine  way,  in  the 
sheriff's  show.  Envy  was  on  horseback 
with  a  wreath  of  snakes  around  her 
head ;  Plenty,  Peace,  Fame,  and  Joy 
were  personated ;  Mercury  came  down 
from  heaven  with  wings,  in  a  cloud ;  a 
"  wheele  of  fire  burning  very  cunning- 
ly, with  other  fireworks,  mounted  the 
Crosse  by  the  assistance  of  ropes,  in  the 
midst  of  heavenly  melody ;  "  and,  to  top 
off  with,  a  grotesque  figure  climbed  up 
to  the  top  of  the  Crosse,  and  stood  on 
his  head,  with  his  feet  in  the  air,  "  very 
dangerously  and  wonderfully  to  the 
view  of  the  beholders,  and  casting  fire- 
works very  delightfull." 

Truly,  the  sheriff's  language  seems 
hardly  too  strong,  when  he  says  that 
none  but  fools  dispraised  his  spectacle. 

These  secular  shows  never  attained 
the  popularity  of  the  old  Mystery  Plays. 
That  mysterious  halo  of  attraction  which 
always  invests  the  forbidden  undoubt- 
edly heightened  the  reputed  charm  of 
the  never-more-to-be-seen  sacred  pag- 
eants, and  led  people  to  continually 
depreciate  the  value  of  all  entertain- 
ments offered  as  substitutes  for  them. 
Probably  in  the  midst  of  the  heavenly 
melodies  and  "  fireworks  very  delight- 
full,"  at  the  sheriff's  grand  show,  old 
men  went  about  shaking  their  heads  re- 
gretfully, and  saying,  "  Ah,  but  you 
should  have  seen  the  gyaunts  we  used 
to  have  forty  years  ago,  and  the  way 
they  played  the  Fall  of  Lucifer  in  1574 ; 
there  's  never  been  anything  like  it 
since  ;  "  and  immediately  all  the  young 
people  who  had  never  seen  a  Miracle 
Play  began  to  be  full  of  dissatisfied  won- 
der as  to  what  they  were  like. 

But  what  the  shows  and  pageants 
lacked  in  the  early  days  of  the  seven- 
teenth century,  grand  processions  went 
a  long  way  towards  making  up.  It  is 
evident  that  Chester  people  never  missed 
au  occasion  for  turning  out  in  fine  array, 


Chester  Streets. 


and  there  being  always  somebody  who 
took  the  trouble  to  write  a  full  account 
of  the  parade,  we  of  to-day  know  almost 
as  much  about  it  as  if  we  had  been  on 
the  spot.  The  old  chronicles  in  the  Ches- 
ter public  library  are  running  over  with 
quaint  and  gay  stories  of  such  doings 
as  the  following :  "  Came  to  Chester,  be- 
ing Saturday,  the  Duchess  of  Tremoyle, 
from  France,  mother-in-law  to  the  Lord 
Strange :  and  all  the  Gentry  of  Cheshier, 
Flintshier.  and  Denbighshier  went  to 
meet  her  at  Hoole's  Heath,  with  the 
Earl  of  Derby  ;  being  at  least  six  hun- 
dred horse.  All  the  Gentle  Men  of  the 
artelery  yard  lately  erected  in  Chester, 
met  her  in  Cow  Lane,  in  very  stately 
manner,  all  with  greate  white  and  blew 
fethers,  and  went  before  her  chariot,  in 
march,  to  the  Bishop's  Pallas,  and  mak- 
ing a  yard,  let  her  thro  the  middest,  and 
then  gave  her  three  volleys  of  shot,  and 
so  returned  to  their  yard.  ...  So  many 
knights,  esquires,  and  Gentle  Men  never 
were  in  Chester,  no,  not  to  meet  King 
James  when  he  went  to  Chester." 

This  Cow  Lane  is  now  called  Frod- 
sham  Street ;  and  on  one  of  its  corners 
is  the  building  in  which  William  Penn, 
in  his  day,  preached  more  than  once, 
setting  forth  doctrines  which  the  Duch- 
ess of  Tremoyle  would  have  much  dis- 
relished in  her  day,  as  would  also  the 
artelery  Gentle  Men  with  their  greate 
white  and  blew  fethers.  King  James 
himself  is  said  to  have  once  dropped  in 
at  this  Quaker  meeting-house,  when 
Penu  was  preaching,  and  to  have  sat, 
attentive,  through  the  entire  discourse. 

And  so  we  come  down  through  the 
centuries,  from  the  pasteboard  gyaunt 
and  glued  dragon,  winged  Mercury  with 
lire-wheel,  Duchess  of  Tremoyle  with 
her  plumed  horsemen,  to  the  grim  but 
gentle  Quaker,  holding  feathers  perni- 
cious, plays  deadly,  and  permitting  to 
the  people  nothing  but  plain  yea  and 
nay.  Of  all  this,  and  worlds  more  like 
it,  and  gayer  and  wilder,  —  sadder,  too, 
—  is  the  Chester  air  so  brimful  that,  as 

I  said  in  the  beginning,  it  seems  perpet- 
ually to  go  lilting  about  one's  ears. 

Leaving  the  library,  with  its  quaint 
and  fascinating  old  records,  and  turn- 
ing aside  at  intervals  from  the  more  an- 
cient landmarks  of  the  streets  to  observe 
the  ways  and  conditions  of  the  Cestri- 
ans  now,  the  traveler  is  no  less  repaid. 
Every  rod  of  the  sidewalk  is  a  study  for 
its  present  as  well  as  for  its  past.  The 
venders  are  a  guild  by  themselves,  as 
much  to-day  as  they  were  in  the  six- 
teenth century.  They  build  up  their 
stuffs,  their  old  chairs,  chests,  brooms, 
crockery,  and  tinware,  in  stacks  of  con- 
fusion, in  shelf-like  balconies,  on  beams 
hanging  overhead  and  in  corners  and 
nooks  underfoot,  all  along  the  most  Sm- 
cient  of  the  Rows.  It  is  a  piece  of  good 
luck  to  walk  past  half  a  dozen  doors 
there  without  jostling  something  on  the 
right  or  left,  and  bringing  down  a  clat- 
tering pile  on  one's  heels.  From  shad- 
owy recesses,  men  and  women  eager  for 
trade  dart  out,  eying  the  stranger  sharp- 
ly. They  are  connoisseurs  in  customers, 
if  in  nothing  else,  the  Cestrian  dealers 
of  to-day.  They  know  at  a  glance  who 
will  give  tan  shillings  and  sixpence  for 
a  cream  jug  without  any  nose  and  with 
a  big  crack  in  one  side,  on  the  bare 
chance  of  its  being  old  Welsh.  There 
is  much  excuse  for  their  spreading  out 
their  goods  over  the  highway,  as  they  do, 
for  the  shops  themselves  are  closets, — 
six  by  eight,  eight  by  ten  ;  ten  by  twelve 
is  a  spacious  mart,  in  comparison  with 
the  average.  Deprived  of  the  outside 
nooks  between  the  pillars  of  the  arcade, 
the  dealers  would  be  sorely  put  for 
room.  It  is  becoming,  however,  a  dis- 
puted question,  whether  the  renting  of 
these  shops  includes  any  right  to  the 
covered  ways  in  front  of  them ;  and 
there  is  great  anxiety  among  the  inhab- 
itants of  the  more  dilapidated  portions 
of  the  Rows  in  consequence. 

"There 's  a  deespute  with  the  corpo- 
ration, mem,  as  to  whether  we  hown  the 
stalls  or  not,"  said  an  energetic  furni- 


Chester  Streets. 


ture-wife  (if  fish-wife,  why  not  furniture- 
wife  ?)  to  me  one  day,  as  I  was  laugh- 
ingly steering  a  cautious  passage  among 
her  shaky  pyramids  of  fourth  or  twen- 
tieth hand  furniture.  "  It  's  lasted  a 
while  now,  an'  they  've  not  forced  us  to 
give  'em  hup  as  yet ;  but  I  'm  afeard 
they  may  bring  it  about,"  she  added, 
with  the  dogged  humility  of  her  class. 
"They  Ve  everything  their  own  way, 
the  corporation." 

It  is  worth  while  to  take  a  turn  down 
some  of  the  crevice-like  alleys  in  these 
Rows,  and  see  where  the  people  live ; 
see  also  where  the  nobility  gets  part  of 
its  wherewithal  to  eat,  drink,  and  be 

Often  there  is  to  be  seen  at  the  far 
end  of  these  crevices  a  point  of  sunlight ; 
like  the  gleaming  point  of"  light  seen 
ahead,  in  going  througli  a  rayless  tun- 
nel. This  betokens  a  tiny  court-yard  in 
the  rear.  These  court-yards  are  always 
well  worth  seeing.  They  are  paved, 
sometimes  with  tiles  evidently  hundreds 
of  years  old.  The  different  properties  of 
the  dozens  of  families  living  in  tenements 
opening  on  the  court  are  arranged  around 
its  sides,  apparently  each  family  keeping 
scrupulously  to  its  own  little  hand's- 
breadth  of  room  ;  frequently  a  tiny  flow- 
er-bed, or  a  single  plant  in  a  pot,  gives  a 
gleam  of  cheer  to  the  place.  In  such  a 
court-yard  as  this,  I  found,  one  morning, 
a  yellow-haired,  blue-eyed  little  maid, 
scrubbing  away  for  dear  life,  with  a 
broom  and  soap-suds,  on  the  old  tiles. 
She  was  not  over  nine  years  old  ;  her 
bare  legs  and  feet  were  pink  and  chub- 
by, and  she  had  a  smile  like  a  sunbeam. 

"  I  saw  the  sun  shining  in  here  so 
brightly,  that  I  walked  up  the  alley  to 
see  how  it  got  in,"  I  said  to  her. 

"  Yes,  mem,"  she  said,  with  a  courte- 
sy. "  It  do  shine  in  here  beautiful," 
and  she  looked  up  at  the  sky,  smiling. 

"  Have  you  lived  here  long? "  I  asked. 

"  About  nine  months,  mem.  I  'm 
only  in  service,  mem,"  she  continued 
with  a  deprecating  courtesy,  modestly 

anxious  to  disclaim  the  honor  of  having 
any  proprietary  right  in  the  place. 

"  We  've  five  rooms,  mem,"  she  went 
on.  "  It 's  a  very  nice  lodging,  if  you  'd 
like  to  see  it ; "  and  she  threw  open  a 
door  into  an  infinitesimal  parlor,  out  of 
which  opened  a  still  smaller  dining-room, 
lighted  only  by  a  window  in  the  parlor 
door.  There  were  two  bedrooms  above, 
reached  by  a  nearly  upright  stairway, 
not  over  two  feet  wide.  The  fifth  room 
was  a  "  beautiful  washroom,"  which  the 
little  maiden  exhibited  with  even  more 
pride  than  she  had  shown  the  parlor. 
"  It 's  three  families  has  it  together, 
mem,"  she  explained.  "  It 's  a  great 
thing  to  get  a  washroom.  And  we  've  a 
coal-hole,  too,  mem,"  she  said  eagerly ; 
"  you  passed  it,  coming  up,"  and  she 
stepped  a  few  paces  down  the  alley  and 
threw  open  a  door  into  a  rayless  place, 
possibly  five  by  seven  feet  in  size.  "  It 
used  to  be  a  bedroom,  mem,  to  the  op- 
posite house  ;  but  it 's  empty  now,  so  we 
gets  it  for  coal."  I  could  not  take  my 
eyes  from  the  child's  face,  as  she  prat- 
tled and  pattered  along.  She  looked 
like  an  angel.  Her  face  shone  with 
loyalty,  pride,  and  happiness.  I  envied 
the  poverty-stricken  dwellers  in  this 
court  their  barefooted  handmaiden,  and 
would  have  taken  her  then  and  there,  if 
I  could,  into  my  own  service  for  her 
lifetime.  As  we  stood  talking,  another 
door  opened,  and  a  grizzled  old  head 
popped  out. 

"  Good-morning,  mem,"  said  the  child, 
cheerily,  making  the  same  respectful 
courtesy  she  had  made  to  me.  "  I  'm 
just  showin'  the  lady  what  nice  lodgin's 
we  've  'ere  in  the  court." 

"  Humph,"  said  the  old  woman  gruff- 
ly, as  she  tottered  out,  leaving  her  door 
wide  open,  "  they  're  nothin'  to  boast 

Her  own  lodging  certainly  was  not. 
It  was  literally  little  more  than  a  cham- 
ber in  the  wall :  it  had  no  window,  ex- 
cept one  small  square  pane  above  the 
door.  You  could  hardly  stand  upright 


Chester  Streets. 


in  it,  and  not  much  more  than  turn 
around.  The  walls  were  hung  full : 
household  utensils,  clothes,  even  her  two 
or  three  books,  were  hung  up  by  strings ; 
there  being  only  room  for  one  tiny  table, 
besides  the  stove.  In  one  corner  stood 
a  step-ladder,  which  led  up  through  a 
hole  in  the  ceiling  to  the  cranny  over- 
head in  which  she  slept.  This  was  all 
the  old  woman  had.  She  lived  here 
alone,  and  she  paid  to  the  Duke  of  West- 
minster two  shillings  and  sixpence  a 
week  for  the  rent  of  the  place.  "  It 's 
dear  at  the  rent,"  she  said  ;  "  but  it 's  a 
respectable  place,  an'  I  think  a  deal  o' 
that,"  and  she  sighed. 

The  name  of  the  Duke  of  Westmin- 
ster and  the  value  of  that  two  and  six- 
pence to  his  grace  meant  more  to  me 
that  morning  than  it  would  have  done 
twenty-four  hours  earlier ;  for  on  the 
previous  afternoon  we  had  visited  his 
palace,  the  famous  Eaton  Hall.  '  We 
had  walked  there  for  weary  hours  over 
marble  floors,  under  frescoed  domes, 
through  long  lines  of  statues,  of  pic- 
tures, of  stained -glass  windows,  hang- 
ings, carvings,  and  rare  relics  and  tro- 
phies innumerable.  We  had  seen  the 
duchess's  window  balcony,  one  waving 
mass  of  yellow  musk.  "  Her  ladyship 
is  very  fond  of  musk.  It  is  always  to 
be  kept  flowering  at  her  window,"  we 
were  told. 

We  had  walked  also  through  a  glass 
corridor  three  hundred  and  seventy-five 
yards  long,  draped  with  white  clematis 
and  heliotrope  on  one  side,  and  on  the 
other  banked  high  with  geraniums,  car- 
nations, and  all  manner  of  flowers. 
Opening  at  intervals  in  these  banks  of 
flowers  were  doors  into  other  conserva- 
tories :  one  was  filled  chiefly  with  rare 
orchids,  like  an  enchanted  aviary  of 
humming-birds,  arrested  on  the  wing ; 
gold  and  white,  purple  and  white,  brown 
and  gold,  green,  snowy  white,  orange ; 
some  of  them  as  large  as  a  fleur-de-lis. 
Another  house  was  filled  with  ferns  and 
palms,  green,  luxuriant,  like  a  bit  of 

tropical  forest  brought  across  seas  for 
his  grace's  pleasure.  The  most  superb 
sight  of  all  was  the  lotus  house.  Cleo- 
patra herself  might  have  flushed  with 
pleasure  at  beholding  it.  A  deep  tank, 
sixty  feet  long,  and  twenty  wide,  filled 
with  white  and  blue  and  pink  blossoms, 
floating,  swaying,  lolling  on  the  dark 
water  ;  seemingly  to  uphold  the  glass 
roof  canopying  this  lotus-decked  sea, 
rose  slender  columns,  wreathed  with 
thunbergia  vines  in  full  bloom,  yellow, 
orange,  and  white  ;  the  glass  walls  of 
the  building  were  set  thick  and  high 
with  maiden-hair  and  other  rare  ferns, 
interspersed  at  irregular  intervals  with 
solid  masses  of  purple  or  white  flowers. 
The  spell  of  the  place,  of  its  warm,  lan- 
guid air,  was  beyond  words :  it  was  be- 

All  this  being  vivid  in  my  mind,  I 
started  at  hearing  his  grace's  name  from 
the  old  woman's  lips. 

"  So  these  houses  belong  to  the 
Duke  of  Westminster,  do  they  ?  "  I  re- 

"Yes,  ee  's  the  'ole  o'  't,"  she  an- 
swered ;  "  an'  a  power  o'  money  it  brings 
'im  in,  considerin'  its  size.  'Ee  's  big 
rents  in  this  town.  Mebbe  ye  've  bin 
out  t'  'is  'all  ?  It 's  a  gran'  sight,  I  'm 
told.  I  've  never  seen  it." 

I  was  minded  then  to  tell  about  the 
duke's  flowers.  It  would  have  been 
only  a  bit  of  a  fairy  story  to  the  little 
maid,  a  bright  spot  in  her  still  bright 
horizons ;  but  I  forbore,  for  the  sake  of 
the  old  woman's  soul,  already  enough 
wrung  and  embittered  by  the  long  strain 
of  her  hard  lot,  and  its  contrast  with 
that  of  her  betters,  without  having  that 
contrast  enforced  by  a  vivid  picture  of 
the  duke's  hot-houses.  My  own  mem- 
ory of  them  was  darkened  forever,  — 
unreasonably  so,  perhaps  ;  but  the  antith- 
esis came  too  suddenly  and  soon  for  me 
ever  to  separate  the  pictures. 

The  archaeologist  in  Chester  will  fre- 
quently be  lured  from  its  streets  to  its 
still  more  famous  walls.  This  side  Rome 


Chester  Streets. 


there  is  no  such  piece  of  Roman  mason- 
ry work,  to  be  seen.  Here,  indeed,  is 
the  air  full  of  ballad  measures,  to  which 
one  must  step,  if  he  go  his  way  think- 
ing at  all.  The  four  great  gates,  north, 
south,  east,  and  west,  —  three  kept  by 
earls,  and  only  one  owned  by  the  cit- 
izens ;  the  lesser  posterns,  with  com- 
moner names,  born  of  their  different 
sorts  of  traffic,  or  the  fords  to  which 
they  led  ;  the  towers  and  turrets,  fought 
over,  lost  and  won,  and  won  and  lost, 
trod  by  centuries  of  brave  fighters  whose 
names  live  forever ;  bridgeways  and 
arches  in  their  own  successions,  of  as 
noble  lineage  as  any  lineages  of  men",  — 
of  such  are  the  walls  of  Chester.  They 
surround  the  old  city :  are  nearly  two 
miles  in  length,  and  were  originally  of 
the  width  prescribed  in  the  ancient  Ro- 
man manual  of  Vitruvius,  "  that  two 
armed  men  may  pass  each  other  without 
impediment."  There  are  many  places 
now,  however,  which  would  by  no  means 
come  up  to  that  standard  ;  nature  having 
usurped  much  space  with  her  various 
growths,  and  time  having  been  chip- 
ping away  at  them  as  well.  In  fact, 
on  some  portions  of  the  wall,  there  is 
only  a  narrow  grassy  footpath,  such  as 
might  wind  around  in  a  village  church- 

<J  O 

yard.  To  come  up  by  hoary  stone  stairs, 
out  of  the  bustling  street,  atop  of  the 
wall,  and  out  on  such  a  bit  of  footpath 
as  this,  with  an  outlook  over  the  Rood 
Eye  meadow  and  off  toward  the  region 
of  the  old  Welsh  castles,  is  a  fine  early- 
morning  treat  in  Chester.  Some  of  the 
towers  are  now  sunk  to  the  ignoble  uses 


of  heterogeneous  museums.  Old  wo- 
men have  the  keys,  and  for  a  fee  admit 
curious  people  to  the  ancient  chambers 
and  keeps,  where,  after  having  the  sat- 
isfaction of  standing  where  kings  have 
stood,  and  looking  off  over  fields  where 
kings'  battles  were  fought,  they  can  ira/e 
at  glass  cases  full  of  curiosities  and  rel- 
ics of  one  sort  and  another,  sometimes 
of  an  incredible  worthlessness.  In  the 
tower  known  as  King  Charles's  Tower, 

from  the  fact  of  Charles  the  First  hav- 
ing stood  there,  on  the  27th  of  Septem- 
ber, 1645,  overlooking  the  to  him  luck- 
less battle  of  Rowton  Moor,  is  the  most 
miscellaneous  collection  of  odds  and 
ends  ever  offered  to  public  gaze.  A 
very  old  woman  keeps  the  key  of  this 
tower,  and  is  herself  by  no  means  the 
least  of  the  curiosities  in  it.  She  was 
born  in  Chester,  and  recollects  well 
when  all  the  space  outside  the  old  walls, 
which  is  now  occupied  by  the  modern 
city,  was  chiefly  woods  ;  she  used  to  go, 
in  her  childhood,  to  play  and  to  gather 
flowers  in  them.  The  fact  that  King 
Charles  once  looked  through  the  window 
of  this  turret  has  grown,  by  a  sort  of 
geometrical  ratio  relative  to  the  number 
of  years  she  has  been  reiterating  the 
statement,  into  a  colossally  dispropor- 
tionate place  in  her  mind. 

"The  king,  mem,  stood  just  where 
you  're  standin'  now,"  she  says  over  and 
over  and  over,  in  a  mechanical  manner, 
as  long  as  you  remain  in  the  tower.  I 
wondered  if  she  said  it  all  night,  in  her 
sleep ;  and  if,  if  one  were  to  spend  a 
whole  day  in  the  tower,  she  would  never 
stop  saying  it.  Shew. is  an  enthusiastic 
show-woman  of  her  little  store  ;  undis- 
mayed by  any  amount  of  indifference 
on  the  part  of  her  listeners.  "  Ere  's  a 
face  you  know  mem,  I  dare  say,"  pro- 
ducing from  one  corner  of  the  glass  case 
a  cheap  newspaper  picture,  much  soiled, 
of  General  Grant.  "  'Ee  was  in  this 
tower,  last  summer,  and  'ee  was  much 

Next  to  General  Grant's  portrait 
came  "  a  ring  snake  from  Kentucky." 
"  It 's  my  brother,  mem,  brought  that 
over :  twenty  years  ago,  ee  was  in 
Hamerica.  You  must  undustand  thu 
puttin'  of  'em  hup  better  than  we  do, 
mem,  for  ere  's  these  salamanders  was 
only  put  hup  two  years  ago,  an'  they  've 
quite  gone  a' ready,  in  that  time." 

She  had  a  statuette  of  King  Charles, 
Cromwell's  chaplain's  broth  bowl,  a  bit 
of  a  bed-quilt  of  Queen  Anne's,  a  black 


Chester  Streets. 


snake  from  Australia,  a  fine-tooth  comb 
from  Africa,  a  tattered  fifty-cent  piece 
of  American  paper  currency,  and  a 
string  of  shell  money  from  the  South 
Sea  Islands,  all  arranged  in  close  prox- 
imity. Taking  up 'the  bit  of  American 
currency,  she  held  it  out  toward  us,  say- 
ing, inquiringly,  "  Hextinct  now,  mem, 
I  believe  ?  "  I  think  she  can  hardly 
have  recovered  even  yet  from  the  be- 
wilderment into  which  she  was  thrown 
by  our  convulsive  laughter  and  ejacu- 
lated reply,  "  Oh,  no.  Would  that  it 
were !  " 

In  a  clear  day  can  be  seen  from  this 
tower,  a  dozen  or  so  miles  to  the  south, 
the  ruins  of  a  castle  built  by  Earl  Han- 
del Blundeville.    He  was  the  Earl  Ran- 
del  of  whom  Roger  Lacy,  constable  of 
Cheshire  in  1204,  made  a  famous  res- 
cue, once  on  a  time.   The  earl,  it  seems, 
was  in  a   desperate  strait,  besieged   in 
one  of  his  castles  by  the  Welsh  ;  per- 
haps in  this  very  castle.     Roger  Lacy, 
hearing  of  the  earl's  situation,  forthwith 
made  a  muster  of  all  the  tramps,  beg- 
gars, and  rapscallions  he  could  find :  "  a 
tumultuous   rout,"  says   the   chronicle, 
"  of  loose,  disorderly,  and  dissolute  per- 
sons, players,  minstrels,  shoemakers  and 
the  like,  and  marched  speedily  towards 
the    enemy."     The   Welsh,    seeing    so 
great  a  multitude  coming,  raised  their 
siege  and  fled  ;  and  the  earl,  thus  deliv- 
ered, showed  his   gratitude  to   Consta- 
ble Roger  by  conferring  upon  him  per- 
petual   authority   over   the   loose,    idle 
persons  in  Cheshire ;  making  the  office 
hereditary    in    the    Lacy    family.      A 
thankless    dignity,  one  would   suppose, 
at  best ;  by  no  means  a  sinecure,  at  any 
time,  and  during  the  season  of  the  Mid- 
summer Fairs  a  terrible  responsibility  : 
it  being  the  'law  of  the  land  that  during 
those  fairs   the  city  of  Chester  was  for 
the  space  of  one  month  a  free  city  of 
refuge  for  all  criminals,  of  whatsoever 
degree ;  in  token  of  which  a  glove  was 
hung  out  at  St.  Peter's  Church,  on  the 
first  day  of  the  fairs. 

There  is  another  good  tale  of  Roger 
Lacy's  prowess.  He  seems  to  have 
been  a  roving  fighter,  for  he  once  held 
a  castle  in  Normandy,  for  King  John, 
against  the  French, "  with  such  gallantry 
that  after  all  his  victuals  were  spent, 
having  been  besieged  almost  a  year,  and 
many  assaults  of  the  enemy  made,  but 
still  repulsed  by  him,  he  mounts  his 
horse,  and  issues  out  of  the  castle  with 
his  troop  into  the  middestof  his  enemies, 
chusing  rather  to  die  like  a  soldier, 
than  to  starve  to  death.  He  slew  many 
of  the  enemy,  but  was  at  last  with  much 
difficulty  taken  prisoner ;  so  he  and  his 
soldiers  were  brought  prisoners  to  the 
King  of  France,  where,  by  the  com- 
mand of  the  king,  Roger  Lacy  was  to 
be  held  no  strict  prisoner,  for  his  great 
honesty  and  trust  in  keeping  the  Castle 
so  gallantly.  .  .  .  King  John's  letter 
to  Roger  Lacy  concerning  the  keeping 
of  the  said  castle,  you  may  see  among 
the  Norman  writings  put  out  by  Andrew 
du  Chesne,  and  printed  at  Paris  in 
1619."  Of  all  of  which,  if  no  ballad 
have  ever  been  written,  it  is  certain  that 
songs  must  have  been  sung  by  min- 
strels at  the  time  ;  and  the  name  of  the 
brave  Roger's  lady-love  was  well  suited 
to  minstrelsy,  she  being  one  Maud  de 
Clare.  Plain  Roger  Lacy  and  Maud 
de  Clare !  The  dullest  fancy  takes  a 
leap  at  the  sound  of  the  two  names. 

In  the  same  old  chronicle  which  gives 
these  and  many  other  narratives  of 
Roger  Lacy  is  the  history  of  a  singular, 
half-witted  being,  who  was  known  in 
Vale-Royale,  in  the  fifteenth  century,  as 
Nixon  the  Prophet.  How  much  that 
the  old  records  claim  for  him,  in  the 
way  of  minute  and  minutely  fulfilled 
prophecies,  is  to  be  set  down  to  the  score 
of  ignorant  superstition,  it  is  hard  now 
to  say ;  but  there  must  have  been  some 
foundation  in  fact  for  the  narrative. 
Robert  Nixon  was  the  son  of  a  farmer 
in  Cheshire  County,  and  was  born  in 
the  year  1467.  His  stupidity  and  igno- 
rance were  said  to  be  "  invincible."  No 


efforts  could  make  him  understand  any- 
thing save  the  care  of  cattle,  and  even 
in  this  he  showed  at  times  a  brutish 
and  idiotic  cruelty.  He  had  a  very  rough, 
coarse  voice,  but  said  little,  sometimes 
passing  whole  months  without  opening 
his  lips  to  speak.  He  began  very  early 
to  foretell  events,  and  with  an  apparent- 
ly preternatural  accuracy.  When  he 
was  a  lad,  he  was  seen,  one  day,  to  abuse 
an  ox  belonging  to  his  brother.  To  a 
person  threatening  to  inform  his  brother 
of  this  act,  Robert  replied  that  three 
days  later  his  brother  would  not  own 
the  ox.  Sure  enough,  on  the  next  day  a 
life  inheritance  came  into  the  estate  on 
which  his  brother  was  a  tenant,  and  that 
very  ox  was  taken  for  the  "  heriot 
bond  to  the  new  owner."  One  of  the 
abbey  monks  having  displeased  him,  he 
exclaimed,  — 

"  When  you  the  harrow  come  on  high, 
Soon  a  raven's  nest  will  be." 

The  couplet  was  thought  at  the  time  to 
be  simple  nonsense  :  but  as  it  turned  out, 
the  last  abbot  of  that  monastery  was 
named  Harrow  ;  and  when  the  king  sup- 
pressed the  monastery  he  gave  the  do- 
main to  Sir  Thomas  Holcroft,  whose 
crest  was  a  raven. 

It  was  also  one  of  Nixon's  predictions 
that  the  two  abbeys  of  Vale-Royale  and 
Norton  should  meet  on  Orton  bridge 
and  the  thorn  growing  in  the  abbey 
yard  should  be  its  door. 

When  the  abbeys  were  pulled  down, 
in  the  time  of  the  Reformation,  stones 
taken  from  each  of  them  were  used  in 
rebuilding  that  bridge ;  and  the  thorn- 
tree  was  cut  down,  and  placed  as  a  bar- 
rier across  the  entrance  to  the  abbey 
court,  to  keep  the  sheep  from  entering 

The  most  remarkable  of  Nixon's  pre- 
dictions or  revelations  was  at  the  time 
of  the  battle  on  Bosworth  Field  between 
Richard  III.  and  Henry  VII.  On  that 
day,  as  he  was  driving  a  pair  of  oxen, 
he  stopped  suddenly,  and  with  his  whip 
pointing  now  one  way,  now  another, 

Chester  Streets. 


cried  aloud,  "  Now  Richard,"  "  Now 
Harry  !  "  At  last  he  said,  "  Now,  Harry, 
get  over  that  ditch,  and  you  gain  the 
day !  "  The  plowmen  with  him  were 
greatly  amazed,  and  related  to  many 
persons  what  had  passed.  When  a  courier 
came  through  the  country  announcing 
the  result  of  the  battle  he  verified  every 
word  Nixon  had  said. 

This  courier,  when  he  returned  to 
court,  recounted  Nixon's  predictions  ; 
and  King  Henry  was  so  impressed  by 
them  that  he  at  once  sent  orders  to 
have  him  brought  to  the  palace. 

Before  this  messenger  arrived,  Nixon 
ran  about  like  a  madman,  weeping  and 
crying  that  the  king  was  about  sending 
for  him,  and  that  he  must  go  to  court, 
to  be  starved  to  death. 

In  a  few  days  the  royal  messenger  ap- 
peared. Nixon  was  turning  the  spit  in 
his  brother's  kitchen.  Just  before  the 
messenger  came  in  sight,  he  shrieked 
out,  "  He  is  on  the  road  !  He  is  coming 
for  me  !  I  shall  be  starved !  " 

Lamenting  loudly,  he  was  carried 
away  almost  by  force,  and  taken  into 
the  presence  of  the  king,  who  tried  him 
with  various  tests  :  among  others,  he  hid 
a  diamond  ring,  and  commanded  Nixon 
to  find  it ;  but  all  the  answer  he  got  from 
the  cunning  varlet  was,  "  He  that  hideth 
can  find."  The  king  caused  all  he  said 
to  be  carefully  noted  and  put  down  in 
writing  ;  gave  him  the  run  of  the  palace, 
and  commanded  that  no  one  should  mo- 
lest or  offend  him  any  way. 

One  day,  when  the  king  was  setting 
off  on  a  hunt,  Nixon  ran  to  him,  cry- 
ing and  begging  to  be  allowed  to  go, 
too  ;  saying  that  his  time  had  come  now, 
and  he  would  be  starved  if  he  were  left 
behind.  To  humor  his  whim  and  ease 
his  fears,  the  king  gave  him  into  the  es- 
pecial charge  and  keeping  of  one  of  the 
chief  officers  of  the  court.  The  officer, 
in  turn,  to  make  sure  that  no  ill  befell 
the  poor  fellow,  locked  him  up  in  one 
of  his  private  rooms,  and  with  his  own 
hands  carried  food  to  him.  But  after  a 

Chester  Streets. 


day  or  two,  a  very  urgent  message  from 
the  king  calling  this  officer  suddenly 
away,  iu  the  haste  of  his  departure  he 
forgot  Nixon,  and  left  him  locked  up  in 
the  apartment.  No  one  missed  him  or 
discovered  him,  and  when  at  the  end 
of  three  days  the  officer  returned,  Nixon 
was  found  dead  —  dead,  as  he  had  him- 
self foretold,  of  starvation.  It  is  a 
strange  and  pitiful  story,  a  tale  suited 
to  its  century,  and  could  not  be  left  out 
were  there  ever  to  be  written  a  bal- 
lad-history of  the  Vale-Royale's  olden 

It  is  a  question,  in  early  mornings  in 
Chester,  whether  to  take  a  turn  on  the 
ancient  walls,  listening  to  echoes  such 
as  these  from  all  the  fair  country  in 
sight  in  embrace  of  the  Dee,  or  to  saun- 
ter through  the  market,  and  hear  the 
shriller  but  no  less  characteristic  voice 
of  Cestrian  life  to-day. 

Markets  are  always  good  vantage- 
grounds  for  studying  the  life  and  people 
of  a  place  or  region.  The  true  traveler 
never  feels  completely  at  home  in  a 
town  till  he  has  been  in  the  markets. 
Many  times  I  have  gathered  from  the 
chance  speech  of  an  ignorant  market 
jnan  or  woman  information  I  had  been 
in  search  of  for  days.  Markets  are  es- 
pecially interesting  in  places  where  caste 
and  class  lines  are  strongly  drawn,  as 
in  England.  The  market  man  or  woman 
whose  ancestors  have  been  of  the  same 
following,  and  who  has  no  higher  ambi- 
tion iu  life  than  to  continue,  aud  if  pos- 
sible enhance,  the  good  will  and  the 
good  name  of  the  business,  is  good  au- 
thority to  consult  on  all  matters  within 
his  range.  There  is  a  self-poise  about 
him,  the  result  of  his  satisfaction  with 
his  own  position,  which  is  dignified  and 

On  my  last  morning  in  Chester,  I 
spent  an  hour  or  two  in  the  markets, 
and  encountered  two  good  specimens  of 
this  class.  One  was  a  fair,  slender  girl, 
so  unexceptionably  dressed  in  a  plain, 
well-cut  ulster  that,  as  I  observed  her  in 

the  crowd  of  market-women,  I  supposed 
she  was  a  young  housekeeper,  out  for 
her  early  marketing :  but  presently,  to 
my  great  astonishment,  I  saw  her  with 
her  own  hands  measuring  onions  into  a 
huckster-woman's  basket.  On  drawing 
nearer,  I  discovered  that  she  was  the 
proprietress  of  a  natty  vegetable  cart, 
piled  full  of  all  sorts  of  green  stuff, 
which  she  was  selling  to  the  sellers. 
She  could  not  have  been  more  than 
eighteen.  Her  manner  and  speech  were 
prompt,  decisive,  business-like,  she  wast- 
ed no  words  in  her  transactions.  Her 
little  brother  held  the  sturdy  pony's 
reins,  and  she  stood  by  the  side  of  the 
cart,  ready  to  take  orders.  She  said 
that  she  lived  ten  miles  out  of  town ; 
that  she  and  her  three  brothers  had  a 
large  market  garden,  of  which  they  did 
all  the  work  with  their  own  hands,  and 
she  and  this  lad  brought  the  prodi^ce  to 
market  daily. 

"  I  make  more  sellin'  'olesale  than 
sellin'  standin',''  she  said  ;  "  an'  I  'm 
'ome  again  by  ten  o'clock,  to  be  at  the 

I  observed  that  all  who  bought  from 
her  addressed  her  as  "  miss,"  and  bore 
themselves  toward  her  with  a  certain 
respectfulness  of  demeanor,  showing  that 
they  considered  her  avocation  a  grade 
or  so  above  their  own. 

A  matronly  woman,  with  pink  cheeks 
and  bright  hazel  eyes,  had  walked  in 
from  her  farm,  a  distance  of  six  miles, 
because  the  load  of  greens,  eggs,  poul- 
try, and  flowers  was  all  that  her  small 
pony  could  draw.  Beautiful  moss  roses 
she  had,  at  "thrippence"  a  bunch. 

"  No,  no,  Ada,  not  any  more,"  she 
said,  in  a  delicious  low  voice,  to  a  child 
by  her  side,  who  was  slyly  taking  a  rose 
from  one  oi  the  baskets.  "  You  've 
enough  there.  It  hurts  them  to  lie  in 
the  'ot  sun.  My  daughter,  mem,"  she 
explained,  as  the  little  thing  shrunk 
back,  covered  with  confusion,  and  pre- 
tended to  be  very  busy  arranging  the 
flowers  on  a  little  board  laid  across  two 


Chester  Streets. 


stones,  behind  which  she  was  squatted, 
—  "  my  daughter,  mem.  All  the  profits 
of  the  flowers  they  sell  are  their  own, 
mem.  They  puts  it  all  in  the  mission- 
ary box.  They  'd  eighteen  an'  six  last 
year,  mem,  in  all,  besides  what  they  put 
in  the  school  box.  Yes,  mem,  indeed 
they  had."  > 

It  struck  me  that  this  devout  mother 
took  a  strange  view  of  the  meaning  of 
the  word  "own,"  and  I  did  not  spend 
so  much  money  on  Ada's  flowers  as  I 
would  have  done  if  I  had  thought  Ada 
would  have  the  spendiug  of  it  herself, 
in  her  own  childish  way.  But  I  bought 
a  big  bunch  of  red  and  white  daisies, 
and  another  of  columbines,  white  pinks, 
ivy,  and  poppies ;  and  the  little  maid, 
barely  ten  years  old,  took  my  silver, 
made  change,  and  gave  me  the  flowers 
with  a  winsome  smile  and  a  genuine 
market-woman's  "  Thank  you,  mem." 

Jt  was  a  pretty  scene :  the  open  space 
in  front  of  the  market  building,  filled 
with  baskets,  bags,  barrows,  piles  of 
fresh  green  things,  chiefly  of  those  end- 
less cabbage  species,  which  England  so 
proudly  enumerates  when  called  upon 
to  mention  her  vegetables  ;  the  dealers 
were  principally  women,  with  fresh,  fair 
faces,  rosy  cheeks,  and  soft  voices  ;  in 
the  outer  circle,  scores  of  tiny  donkey 
carts,  in  which' the  vegetables  had  been 
brought.  One  chubby  little  girl,  surely 
not  more  than  seven,  was  beginning  her 
market-woman's  training  by  minding 
the  donkey,  while  her  mother  attended 
to  trade.  As  she  stood  by  the  donkey's 
side,  her  head  barely  reached  to  his 
ears ;  but  he  entered  very  cleverly  into 
the  spirit  of  the  farce  of  being  kept  in 
place  by  such  a  mite,  and  to  that  end 
employed  her  busily  in  feeding  him  with 
handful s  of  grass.  If  she  stopped,  he 
poked  his  nose  into  her  neck  and  rum- 

maged under  her  chin,  till  she  began 
again.  All  had  flowers  to  sell,  if  it 
were  only  a  single  bunch,  or  plant  in 
a  pot ;  and  there  were  in  the  building 
several  fine  stalls  entirely  filled  with 
flowers,  —  roses,  carnations,  geraniums, 
and  wonderful  pansies.  Noticing,  in 
one  stall,  a  blossom  I  had  never  before 
seen,  I  asked  the  old  woman  who  kept 
the  stand  to  tell  me  its  name.  She 
clapped  her  hand  to  her  head  tragically. 
"  'Deed,  mem,  it 's  strange.  Ye  're  the 
second  has  asked  me  the  name  o'  that 
flower ;  an'  it 's  gone  out  o'  my  head. 
If  the  young  lady  that  has  the  next 
stand  was  here,  she  'd  tell  ye.  It  was 
from  her  I  got  the  roots  :  she  's  a  great 
botanist,  mem,  an'  a  fine  gardener. 
Could  I  send  ye  the  name  o'  't,  mem  ? 
I  'd  be  pleased  to  accommodate  ye,  an' 
may  be  ye  'd  like  a  root  or  two  o'  't. 
It 's  a  free  grower.  We  've  'ad  a  death 
in  the  house,  mem, —  my  little  grand- 
child, only  a  few  hours  ill,  —  an'  it  seems 
like  it'  ad  confused  the  'ole  'ouse.  We 
've  not  'ad  'eart  to  take  pains  with  the 
flowers  yet." 

The  old  woman's  artless,  garrulous 
words  smote  like  a  sudden  bell-note 
echo  from  a  far  past,  — an  echo  that 
never  ceases,  for  hearts  that  have  once 
known  how  bell  notes  sound  when  bells 
toll  for  beloved  dead !  The  thoughts 
her  words  woke  seemed  to  span  Ches- 
ter's centuries  more  vividly  than  all  the 
old  chronicle  traditions  and  legends, 
than  sculptured  Roman  altar,  or  coin, 
or  graven  story  in  stone.  The  strange 
changes  they  recorded  were  but  things 
of  the  surface,  conditions  of  the  hour. 
Through  and  past  them  all,  life  re- 
mained the  same.  Grief  and  joy  do 
not  alter  shape  or  sort.  Love  and 
love's  losses  and  hurts  are  the  same 
yesterday,  to-day,  and  forever. 



The  Bishop's   Vagabond* 



THE  Bishop  was  walking  down  the 
wide  Aiken  street.  He  was  the  only 
bishop  in  Aiken,  and  they  made  much 
of  him,  accordingly,  though  his  diocese 
was  in  the  West,  which  of  course  was  a 

He  was  a  tall  man,  with  a  handsome, 
kind  face  under  his  shovel  hat ;  portly, 
as  a  bishop  should  be,  and  having  a 
twinkle  of  humor  in  his  eye.  He  dressed 
well  and  soberly,  in  the  decorous  habil- 
iments of  his  office.  "  So  English,"  the 
young  ladies  of  the  Highland  Park  Ho- 
tel used  to  whisper  to  each  other,  ad- 
miring him.  Perhaps  this  is  the  time 
to  mention  that  the  Bishop  was  a  wid- 

To-day  he  walked  at  a  gentle  pace, 
repeatedly  lifting  his  hat  in  answer  to 
a  multitude  of  salutations ;  for  it  was 
a  bright  April  day,  and  the  street  was 
thronged.  There  was  the  half-humor- 
ous incongruity  between  the  people  and 
the  place  always  visible  in  a  place  where 
two  thirds  of  the  population  are  a  mere 
pleasant- weather  growth,  dependent  on 
the  climate.  Groups  of  Northerners 
stood  in  the  red  and  blue  and  green 
door-ways  of  the  gay  little  shops,  or 
sauntered  past  them ;  easily  distinguished 
by  their  clothing  and  their  air  of  unac- 
customed and  dissatisfied  languor.  One 
could  pick  out  at  a  glance  the  new-com- 
ers just  up  from  Florida  ;  they  were  so 
decorated  with  alligator-tooth  jewelry, 
and  gazed  so  contemptuously  at  the 
oranges  and  bananas  in  the  windows. 
The  native  Southerners  were  equally 
conspicuous,  in  the  case  of  the  men, 
from  their  careless  dress  and  placid  de- 
meanor. A  plentiful  sprinkling  of  black 
and  yellow  skins  added  to  the  pictur- 
esque character  of  the  scene.  Over  it 
all  hung  a  certain  holiday  air,  the  rea- 
son for  which  one  presently  detected  to  be 
an  almost  universal  wearing  of  flowers, 

—  bunches  of  roses,  clusters  of  violets  or 
trailing  arbutus,  or  twigs  of  yellow  jas- 
mine ;  while  barefooted  boys,  with  dusky 
faces  and  gleaming  teeth,  proffered  nose- 
gays at  every  corner.     The  Aiken  nose- 
gay has  this  peculiarity,  —  the  flowers  are 
wedged  together  with  unexampled  tight- 
ness.    Truly  enough  may  the  little  ven- 
ders boast,  "  Dey  's  orful  lots  o'  roses 
in  dem,  mister ;  you  '11    fin'  w'en  you 
onties  'em."     No  one  of  the  pedestrians 
appeared  to  be  in  a  hurry  ;  and  under 
all  the  holiday  air  of  flowers  there  was 
a  pathetic   disproportion   of    pale   and 
weary  faces. 

But  if  they  did  not  hurry  on  the  side- 
walk, there  was  plenty  of  motion  in  the 
street ;  horses  in  Aiken  being  always 
urged  to  their  full  speed,  —  which,  to  be 
sure,  is  not  alarming.  Now,  carriages 
were  whirling  by  and  riders  galloping 
in  both  directions.  The  riders  were  of 
every  age,  sex,  and  condition :  pretty 
girls  in  jaunty  riding  habits,  young  men 
with  polo  mallets,  old  men  and  children, 
and  grinning  negroes  lashing  their  sorry 
hacks  with  twigs.  Of  the  carriages,  it 
would  be  hard  to  tell  which  was  the 
more  noticeable,  the  smartness  of  the 
vehicles,  or  the  jaded  depression  of  the 
thin  beasts  that  pulled  them.  Where 
Park  and  Ashland  avenues  meet  at 
right  angles  the  crowd  was  most  dense. 
There,  on  one  side,  one  sees  the  neat  lit- 
tle post-office  and  the  photographer's 
gallery,  and  off  in  the  distance  the  white 
pine  towers  of  the  hotel,  rising  out  of 
its  green  hills ;  on  the  other,  the  long 
street  slowly  climbs  the  hill,  through 
shops  and  square  white  houses  with 
green  blinds,  set  back  in  luxuriant  gar- 
dens. At  this  corner  two  persons  were 
standing,  a  young  man  and  a  young 
woman,  both  watching  the  Bishop.  The 
young  woman  was  tall,  handsome,  and 

—  always    an    attraction    in    Aiken  — 


The  Bishop's  Vagabond. 


evidently  not  an  invalid.  The  erect 
grace  of  her  slim  figure,  the  soft  and 
varying  color  on  her  cheek,  the  light 
in  her  beautiful  brown  eyes,  —  all  were 
the  unmistakable  signs  of  health.  The 
young  man  was  a  good-looking  little 
fellow,  perfectly  dressed,  and  having  an 
expression  of  indolent  amusement  on 
his  delicate  features.  He  had  light  yel- 
low hair,  cut  closely  enough  to  show 
the  fine  outline  of  his  head,  a  slight 
mustache  waxed  at  the  ends,  and  a  very 
fair  complexion. 

The  young  woman  was  speaking. 
"  Do  you  see  to  whom  my  father  is  talk- 
ing, Mr.  Talboys  ?  "  said  she. 

"  Plainly,  he  has  picked  up  his  vag- 

"  Demming  ?     Yes,  it  is  Demming." 

"  Now  I  wonder,  do  you  know,"  said 
the  young  man,  "  what  induces  the  Bish- 
op to  waste  his  time  on  such  hopeless 
moral  trash  as  that."  He  spoke  in  a 
pleasant,  slow  voice,  with  an  English  ac- 

"  It  is  n't  hopeless  to  him,  I  suppose," 
she  answered.  Her  voice  also  was  slow, 
and  it  was  singularly  sweet. 

"  I  think  it  must  be  his  sense  of  hu- 
mor," he  continued.  "  The  Bishop  loves 
a  joke,  and  Demming  is  a  droll  fellow. 
He  is  a  sort  of  grim  joke  himself,  you 
know,  a  high-toned  gentleman  who  lives 
by  begging.  He  brings  his  bag  to  the 
hotels  every  day.  Of  course  you  have 
heard  him  talk,  Miss  Louise.  His  strong 
card  is  his  wife.  '  Th'  ole  'ooman  's 
nigh  bliu','  "  —  here  Talboys  gave  a 
very  good  imitation  of  the  South  Caro- 
lina local  drawl  —  "  '  an'  she  's  been  so 
tenderly  raised  she  cyan't  live  'thout 
cyoffee  three  times  a  day ! ' ' 

"  I  have  heard  that  identical  speech," 
said  Louise,  smiling  as  Talboys  knew 
she  would  smile  over  the  imitation.  "He 
gets  a  good  deal  from  the  Northerners, 
I  fancy." 

"  Enough  to  enable  him  to  be  a  pil- 
lar of  the  saloons,"  said  Talboys.  "  He 
is  a  lavish  soul,  and  treats  the  crowd 

when  he  prospers  in  his  profession. 
Once  his  money  gave  out  before  the 
crowd's  thirst.  '  Never  min',  geu'lemen,' 
says  our  friend,  '  res'  easy.  I  see  the 
Bishop  agwine  up  the  street ;  I  '11  git 
a  dollar  from  him.  Yes,  wait ;  I  won't 
be  gwiue  long.'  " 

"  And  he  got  the  money  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes.  I  believe  he  got  it  to  buy 
quinine  for  '  th'  ole  'ooman,'  who  was 
down  with  the  break-bone  fever.  He 
is  like  Yorick,  '  a  fellow  of  infinite 
jest '  —  in  the  way  of  lying.  He  talks 
well,  too.  You  ought  to  hear  him  dis- 
course on  politics.  As  he  gets  most  of 
his  revenue  from  the  North,  he  is  kind 
enough  to  express  the  friendliest  senti- 
ments. 'I  wuz  opposed  to  the  wah's 
bein' '  is  his  standard  speech,  '  an'  now 
I  'm  opposed  to  its  contiuneriuV  For 
all  that,  he  was  a  mild  kind  of  Ku- 

"  He  did  it  for  money,  he  says,"  re- 
turned Louise.  "  The  funniest  thing 
about  him  is  his  absolute  frankness  after 
he  is  found  out  in  any  trick.  He  does 
n't  seem  to  have  any  sense  of  shame, 
and  will  fairly  chuckle  in  my  father's 
face  as  he  is  owning  up  to  some  piece  of 

"  You  know  he  was  in  the  Confeder- 
ate army.  Fought  well,  too,  I  'm  told. 
"What  does  he  do  when  the  Northerners 
are  gone  ?  Aiken  must  be  a  pretty  bare 
begging  ground." 

"  Oh,  he  has  a  wretched  little  cabin 
out  in  the  woods,"  said  Louise,  "  and  a 
sweet-potato  patch.  He  raises  sweet- 
potatoes  and  persimmons  "  — 

"  And  pigs,"  Talboys  interrupted. 
"  I  saw  some  particularly  lean  swine 
grubbing  about  in  the  sand  for  snakes. 
They  feed  them  on  snakes,  in  the  pine 
barrens,  you  know,  which  serves  two 
purposes :  kills  the  snakes  and  fills  the 
pigs.  Entertainment  for  man  and  beast, 
don't  you  see  ?  By  the  way,  talking  of 
being  entertained,  I  know  of  a  fine  old 
Southern  manor-house  over  the  bridge." 

Louise  shook  her  head  incredulously. 


The  Bishop's  Vagabond. 


"  I  have  lost  faith  in  Southern  manor- 
houses.  Ever  since  I  came  South  I 
have  sought  them  vainly.  All  the  way 
from  Atlanta  I  risked  my  life,  putting 
my  head  out  of  the  car  windows,  to  see 
the  plantations.  At  every  scrubby -look- 
ing little  station  we  passed,  the  conduc- 
tor would  say,  '  Mighty  nice  people  live 
heah  ;  great  deal  of  wealth  heah  before 
the  wah  ! '  Then  I  would  recklessly 
put  my  head  out.  I  expected  to  see  the 
real  Southern  mansion  of  the  novelists, 
with  enormous  piazzas  and  Corinthian 
pillars  and  beautiful  avenues  ;  and  the 
whitewashed  cabins  of  the  negroes  in 
the  middle  distance  ;  and  the  planter, 
in  a  white  linen  suit  and  a  wide  straw 
hat,  sitting  on  the  piazza  drinking  mint 
juleps.  Well,  I  don't  really  think  I  ex- 
pected the  planter,  but  I  did  hope  for 
the  house.  Nothing  of  the  kind.  All 
I  saw  was  a  moderate  -  sized  square 
house,  with  piazzas  and  a  flat  roof,  all 
sadly  in  need  of  paint.  Now,  I  'm  like 
Betsey  Prig  :  '  I  don't  believe  there  's  no 
sich  person.'  It 's  a  myth,  like  the  good 
old  Southern  cooking." 

"  Oh,  they  do  exist,"  said  Talboys,  his 
eyes  brightening  over  this  long  speech, 
delivered  in  the  softest  voice  in  the 
world.  "  There  are  houses  in  Charleston 
and  Beaufort  and  on  the  Lower  Missis- 
sippi that  suggest  the  novels  ;  but,  on 
the  whole,  I  think  the  novelists  have 
played  us  false.  We  expect  to  find  the 
ruins  of  luxury  and  splendor  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing  in  the  South ;  but  in 
point  of  fact  there  was  very  little  lux- 
ury about  Southern  life.  They  had 
plenty  of  service,  such  as  it  was,  and 
plenty  of  horses,  and  that  was  about 
all ;  their  other  household  arrangements 
were  painfully  primitive.  All  the  same, 
sha'n't  we  go  over  the  bridge  ?  " 

Louise  assented,  and  they  turned  and 
went  their  way  in  the  opposite  direc- 

Meanwhile,  the  Bishop  and  his  vaga- 
bond were  talking  earnestly.  The  vag- 
abond seemed  to  belong  to  the  class 

known  as  "  crackers."  Poverty,  sick- 
ness, and  laziness  were  written  in  every 
flutter  of  his  rags,  in  every  uncouth  curve 
or  angle  of  his  long,  gaunt  figure  and 
sallow  face.  A  mass  of  unkempt  iron- 
gray  hair  fell  about  his  sharp  features, 
further  hidden  by  a  grizzly  beard.  His 
black  frock  coat  had  once  adorned  the 
distinguished  and  ample  person  of  a 
Northern  senator ;  it  wrinkled  dismally 
about  Demming's  bones,  while  its  soiled 
gentility  was  a  queer  contrast  to  his 
nether  garments  of  ragged  butternut, 
his  coarse  boots,  and  an  utterly  disrepu- 
table hat,  through  a  hole  of  which  a  tuft 
of  hair  had  made  its  way,  and  waved 
plume-wise  in  the  wind.  Around  the 
hat  was  wound  a  strip  of  rusty  crape. 
The  Bishop  quickly  noticed  this  woeful 
addition  to  the  man's  garb.  He  asked 
the  reason. 

"  She  's  done  gone,  Bishop,"  answered 
Demming,  winking  his  eyes  hard  before 
rubbing  them  with  a  grimy  knuckle; 
•'  th'  ole  'ooman  's  done  leff'  me  'lone 
in  the  worl'.  It 's  an  orful  'fliction  !  " 
He  made  so  pitiful  a  figure,  standing 
there  in  the  sandy  road,  the  wind  flut- 
tering his  poor  token  of  mourning,  that 
the  Bishop's  kind  heart  was  stirred. 

"  I  am  truly  sorry,  Demming,"  said 
he.  "  Is  n't  this  very  sudden  ?  " 

"  Laws,  yes,  Bishop,  powerful  suddint 
an'  onprecedented.  'Pears  's  if  I  could 
n't  git  myself  to  b'lieve  it,  nohow.  Yes'- 
day  ev'nin'  she  wuz  chipper  's  evah,  out 
pickin'  pine  buds;  an'  this  mahnin'  she 
woked  me  up,  an'  says  she,  '  I  reckon 
you  'd  better  fix  the  cyoffee  yo'self, 
Demming,  I  feel  so  cu'se,'  says  she.  An' 
so  I  did ;  an'  when  I  come  to  gin  it  ter 
her,  oh,  Lordy,  oh,  Lordy  !  —  'scuse 
me,  Bishop,  —  she  wuz  cole  an'  dead  ! 
Doctor  cyould  n't  do  nuthin',  w'en  I 
brung  'im.  Rheumatchism  o'  th'  heart, 
he  says.  It  wuz  turrible  suddint,  ony- 
how.  'Minded  me  o'  them  thar  games 
with  the  thimble,  you  know,  Bishop,  — 
now  ye  see  it,  an'  now  ye  don' ;  yes,  's 
quick  's  thet !  " 


The  Bishop's  Vagabond. 


The  Bishop  opened  his  eyes  at  the 
comparison  ;  but  Demming  had  turned 
away,  with  a  quivering  lip,  to  bury  his 
face  in  his  hands,  and  the  Bishop  was 
reproached  for  his  criticism  of  the 
other's  naif  phraseology.  Now,  to  be 
frank,  he  had  approached  Demming 
prepared  to  show  severity,  rather  than 
sympathy,  because  of  the  cracker's  last 
flagrant  wrong-doing ;  but  his  indigna- 
tion, righteous  though  it  was,  took  flight 
before  grief.  Forgetting  judgment  in 
mercy,  he  proffered  all  the  consolations 
he  could  summon,  spiritual  and  material, 
and  ended  by  asking  Demming  if  he  had 
made  any  preparations  for  the  funeral. 

"  Thet  thar  's  w'at  I  'm  yere  for,"  re- 
plied the  man  mournfully.  "  You  know 
jes  how  I  'm  fixed.  Cyoffius  cost  a 
heap  ;  an'  then  thar  's  the  shroud,  an'  I 
ain't  got  no  reg'lar  fun'al  ^  cloze,  an' 
'pears  's  ef  't  'ud  be  a  conserlation  t'  have 
a  kerridge  or  two.  She  wuz  a  bawn 
lady,  Bishop  ;  we  're  kin  ter  some  o'  the 
real  aristookracy  o'  Carolina,  —  we  are, 
fur  a  fac' ;  an'  I  'd  kin'  o'  like  ter  hev 
her  ride  ter  her  own  fun'al,  onyhow." 

"  Then  you  will  need  money  ?  " 

"  Not  frum  you,  Bishop,  not  a  red 
cent ;  but  if  you  uns  over  thar,"  jerking 
his  thumb  in  the  direction  of  the  white 
pine  towers,  —  "  if  you  all  'd  kin'  o'  gin 
me  a  small  sum,  an'  ef  you  'd  jes  start 
a  paper,  as  't  were,  an'  al-so  ef  you  yo'- 
self  'ud  hev  the  gret  kin'ness  ter  come 
out  an'  conduc'  the  fun'al  obskesies,  it 
'ud  gratify  the  corpse  powerful.  Mis- 
tress Demming  '11  be  entered  1  then  like 
a  bawn  lady.  Yes,  sir,  thet  thar,  an' 
no  mo',  's  w'at  I  'm  emboldened  ter  ax 
frum  you." 

The  Bishop  reflected.  "  Demming," 
saitl  he  gravely,  "  I  will  try  to  help  you. 
You  have  no  objection,  I  suppose,  to 
our  buying  the  coffin  and  other  things 
needed.  We  will  pay  the  bills." 

Demming's  dejected  bearing  grew  a 
shade  more  sombre  :  he  waved  his  hand, 

1  It  is  supposed  that  Mr.  Demming  intended  to 
say  "  interred." 

a  gesture  very  common  with  him,  and 
usually  denoting  affable  approval ;  now 
it  meant  gloomy  assent.  "  No  objection 
't  all,  Bishop,"  he  said.  "  I  knows  my 
weakness,  though  I  don'  feel  now  as 
ef  I  'd  evah  want  ter  go  on  no  carouse- 
ments  no  mo'.  I  'm  'bliged  ter  you  uns 
jes  the  same.  An'  you  won't  forget 
'bout  the  cloze  ?  I  've  been  a  right  good 
frien'  to  th'  Norf  in  Aiken,  an'  I  hope 
the  Norf  '11  stan'  by  me  in  the  hour  o' 
trubbel.  Now,  Bishop,  I  '11  be  gwine 
'long.  You  '11  fin' 'me  at  the  cyoffin  sto'. 
Mose  Barnwell  —  he  's  a  mighty  de- 
cent cullud  man  —  lives  nigh  me ;  he  's 
gwine  fur  ter  len'  me  his  cyart  ter  tek 
the  cyoffin  home.  Mahnin',  Bishop,  an' 
min',  I  don'  want  money  outeu  you. 
No,  sir,  I  do  not !  " 

Then,  having  waved  his  hand  at  his 
hat,  the  cracker  slouched  away.  The 
Bishop  had  a  busy  morning.  He  went 
from  friend  to  friend,  until  the  needed 
sum  was  collected.  Nor  did  money  sat- 
isfy him :  he  gathered  together  a  suit 
of  clothes  from  the  tallest  Northerners 
of  benevolent  impulses.  Talboys  was 
too  short  to  be  a  donor  of  clothes,  but 
he  gave  more  money  than  all  the  others 
united,  —  a  munificence  that  rebuked  the 
Bishop,  for  he  had  sought  the  young 
Boston  man  last  of  all  and  reluctantly  ; 
somehow,  he  could  not  feel  acquainted 
with  him,  notwithstanding  many  rneet- 
ings  in  many  places.  Moreover,  he  held 
him  in  slight  esteem,  as  an  idle  fellow 
who  did  little  good  with  a  great  fortune. 
In  his  gratitude  he  became  expansive  : 
told  Talboys  about  his  acquaintance  with 
the  cracker,  described  his  experiences 
and  perplexities,  and  at  last  invited  the 
young  man  to  go  to  the  funeral,  the  next 
day.  Talboys  was  delighted  to  accept 
the  invitation  ;  yet  it  could  not  be  said 
that  he  was  often  delighted.  But  he  ad- 
mired the  Bishop,  and,  even  more  warm- 
ly, he  admired  the  Bishop's  daughter ; 
hence  he  caught  at  any  opportunity  to 
show  his  friendliness.  Martin  Talboys 
was  never  enthusiastic,  and  at  times  his 


The  Bishop's  Vagabond. 


views  of  life  might  be  called  cynical; 
but  it  would  be  a  mistake  to  infer,  there- 
fore, that,  as  is  common  enough,  he, 
having  a  mean  opinion  of  other  people, 
struck  a  balance  with  a  very  high  one 
of  himself.  In  truth,  Martin  was  too 
modest  for  his  own  peace  of  mind.  For 
years  he  had  contrived  to  meet  Lou- 
ise, by  accident,  almost  everywhere  she 
went.  She  traveled  a  good  deal,  and 
her  image  was  relieved  against  a  variety 
of  backgrounds.  It  seemed  to  him  fair- 
er in  each  new  picture.  His  love  for 
the  Bishop's  daughter  grew  more  and 
more  absorbing ;  but  at  the  same  time 
he  became  less  and  less  sanguine  that 
she  would  ever  care  for  him.  Although 
he  was  not  enthusiastic,  he  was  quite 
capable  of  feeling  deeply  ;  and  he  had 
begun  to  suspect  that  he  was  capable  of 
suffering.  Yet  he  could  not  force  him- 
self to  decide  his  fate  by  speaking.  It 
was  not  that  Louise  disliked  him  :  on 
the  contrary,  she  avowed  a  sincere  lik- 
ing ;  she  always  hailed  his  coming  with 
pleasure,  telling  him  frankly  that  no 
one  amused  her  as  did  he.  There,  alas, 
was  the  hopeless  part  of  it ;  he  used  to 
say  bitterly  to  himself  that  he  was  n't 
a  man,  a  lover,  to  her ;  he  was  a  mimic, 
a  genteel  clown,  an  errand  boy,  never 
out  of  temper  with  his  work  ;  in  short, 
she  did  not  take  him  seriously  at  all. 
He  knew  the  manner  of  man  she  did 
take  seriously,  —  a  man  of  action,  who 
had  done  something  in  the  world.  Once 
she  told  Talboys  that  he  was  a  "  cap- 
ital observer."  She  made  the  remark 
as  a  compliment,  but  it  stung  him  to 
the  quick  ;  he  realized  that  she  thought 
of  him  only  as  an  observer.  When  a 
trifling  but  obstinate  throat  complaint 
brought  the  Bishop  to  Aiken,  Talboys 
felt  a  great  longing  to  win  his  approval. 
Surely,  Louise,  who  judged  all  men  by 
her  father's  standard,  must  be  influenced 
by  her  father's  favor.  Unhappily,  the 
Bishop  had  never,  as  the  phrase  goes, 
"  taken  "  to  Talboys,  nor  did  he  seem 
more  inclined  to  take  to  him  now,  and 

Martin  was  too  modest  to  persist  in  un- 
welcome attentions.  But  he  greeted  the 
present  opportunity  all  the  more  warmly. 

In  the  morning,  the  three  —  the  Bish- 
op, Louise,  and  Talboys  —  drove  to  the 
cracker's  cabin.  The  day  was  perfect, 
one  of  those  Aiken  days,  so  fair  that 
even  invalids  find  no  complaint  in  their 
wearisome  list  to  bring  against  them 
and  can  but  sigh  over  each,  "  Ah,  if  all 
days  might  only  be  like  this  !  "  Hardly 
a  cloud  marred  the  tender  blue  of  the 
sky.  The  air  was  divinely  soft.  They 
drove  through  the  woods,  and  the  ground 
was  carpeted  with  dry  pine  spikes,  where- 
on their  horses'  hoofs  made  a  dull  and 
pleasant  sound.  A  multitude  of  violets 
grew  in  the  little  spaces  among  the  trees. 
Yellow  jasmine  flecked  the  roadside 
shade  with  gold,  its  fragrance  blending 
with  the  keen  odors  of  the  pine.  If 
they  looked  up,  they  saw  the  pine  tops 
etched  upon  the  sky,  and  a  solemn,  cease- 
less murmur  beat  its  organ -like  waves 
through  all*  their  talk.  The  Bishop  had 
put  on  his  clerical  robes  ;  he  sat  on  the 
back  seat  of  the  carriage,  a  superb  fig- 
ure, with  his  noble  head  and  imposing 
mien.  As  they  rolled  along,  the  Bishop 
talked.  He  spoke  of  death.  He  spoke 
not  as  a  priest,  but  as  a  man,  dwelling 
on  the  mystery  of  death,  bringing  up 
those  speculations  with  which  from  the 
beginning  men  have  striven  to  light  the 
eternal  darkness. 

"  I  suppose  it  is  the  mystery,"  said 
the  Bishop,  "  which  causes  the  unreality 
of  death,  its  perpetual  surprise.  Now, 
behind  my  certainty  of  this  poor  wo- 
man's death  I  have  a  lurking  expecta- 
tion of  seeing  her  standing  in  the  door- 
way, her  old  clay  pipe  in  her  mouth.  I 
can't  help  it." 

"  Though  she  was  a  '  bawn  lady,'  she 
smoked,  did  she  ?  "  said  Talboys.  Then 
he  felt  the  remark  to  be  hopelessly  be- 
low the  level  of  the  conversation,  and 
made  haste  to  add,  "  I  suppose  it  was  a 
consolation  to  her;  she  had  a  pretty 
hard  life,  I  fancy." 


The  Bishop's  Vagabond. 


"  Awfully,"  said  Louise.  "  She  was 
nearly  blind,  poor  woman,  yet  I  think 
she  did  whatever  work  was  done.  I 
have  often  seen  her  hoeing.  I  believe 
that  Demmiug  was  always  good  to  her, 
though.  He  is  a  most  amiable  crea- 

"  Singular  how  a  woman  will  bear 
any  amount  of  laziness,  actual  worth- 
lessness,  indeed,  in  a  man  who  is  good 
to  her,"  the  Bishop  remarked. 

"  Beautiful  trait  in  her  character," 
said  Talboys.  "  Where  should  we  be 
without  it  ?  " 

"  Have  the  Demmings  never  had  any 
children  ?  "  asked  Louise,  who  did  not 
like  the  turn  the  talk  was  taking. 

"  Yes,  one,"  the  Bishop  answered,  "a 
little  girl.  She  died  three  years  ago. 
Dernrning  was  devotedly  attached  to 
her.  He  can't  talk  of  her  now  without 
the  tears  coming  to  his  eyes.  He  really," 
said  the  Bishop  meditatively,  "  seemed 
more  affected  when  he  told  me  about 
her  death  than  he  was  yesterday.  She 
died  of  some  kind  of  low  fever,  and  was 
ill  a  long  time.  He  used  to  walk  up 
and  down  the  little  path  through  the 
woods,  holding  her  in  his  arms.  She 
would  wake  up  in  the  night  and  cry, 
and  he  would  wrap  her  in  an  old  army 
blanket,  and  pace  in  front  of  the  house 
for  hours.  Often  the  teamsters  driv- 
ing into  town  at  break  of  day,  with 
their  loads  of  wood,  would  come  on  him 
thus,  walking  and  talking  to  the  child, 
with  the  little  thin  face  on  his  shoulder, 
and  the  ragged  blanket  trailing  on  the 
ground.  Ah,  Dcraming  is  not  alto- 
gether abandoned,  he  has  an  affectionate 
heart !  " 

Neither  of  his  listeners  made  any  re- 
sponse :  Talboys,  because  of  his  slender 
faith  in  Demming ;  Louise,  because  she 
was  thinking  that  if  the  Aiken  laun- 
dresses were  intrusted  with  her  father's 
lawn  many  more  times  there  would 
be  nothing  left  to  darn.  They  went  on 
silently,  therefore,  until  the  Bishop  said, 
in  a  low  voice,  "  Here  we  are  !  " 

The  negro  driver,  with  the  agility  of 
a  country  coachman,  had  already  sprung 
to  the  ground,  and  was  holding  the  car- 
riage door  open. 

Before  them  lay  a  small  cleared  tract 
of  land,  where  a  pleasant  greenness  of 
young  potato  vines  hid  the  sand.  In 
the  centre  was  a  tumble-down  cabin, 
with  a  mud  chimney  on  the  outside. 
The  one  window  had  no  sash,  and  its 
rude  shutter  hung  precariously  by  a  sin- 
gle leathern  hinge.  The  door  was  open, 
revealing  that  the  -interior  was  papered 
with  newspapers.  Three  or  four  yelp- 
ing curs  seemed  to  be  all  the  furniture. 

There  was  nothing  extraordinary  in 
the  picture ;  one  could  see  fifty  such  cab- 
ins, in  a  radius  of  half  a  mile.  Nor 
was  there  anything  of  mark  in  the  ap- 
pearance of  Demming  himself,  dressed 
exactly  as  he  was  the  day  before,  and 
rubbing  his  eyes  in  the  doorway.  But 
behind  him !  The  coachman's  under 
jaw  dropped  beneath  the  weight  of  a 
loud  "  To'  de  Lawd !  "  The  Bishop's 
benignant  countenance  was  suddenly 
crimsoned.  Talboys  and  Louise  looked 
at  each  other,  and  bit  their  lips.  It 
was  only  a  woman,  —  a  tall,  thin,  bent 
woman  in  a  shabby  print  gown,  with  a 
faded  sunbonnet  pushed  back  from  her 
gray  head  and  a  common  clay  pipe  be- 
tween her  lips.  Probably  in  her  youth 
she  had  been  a  pretty  woman,  and  the 
worn  features  and  dim  eyes  still  re- 
tained something  engaging  in  their  ex- 
pression of  timid  good-will. 

"  Won'  you  all  step  in  ?  "  she  said, 

"  Yes,  yes,"  added  Demming,  inclin- 
ing his  body  and  waving  both  hands 
with  magnificent  courtesy  ;  "  alight,  gen- 
tlemen, alight !  I  'm  sorry  I  ain't  no 
staggah  juice  to  offah  ye,  but  yo'  right 
welcome  to  sweet-potatoes  an'  pussim- 
nion  beah,  w'ich  's  all  "  — 

"  Demming,"  said  the  Bishop  sternly, 
"  what  does  this  mean  ?  I  came  to  bury 
Mrs.  Demming,  and  —  and  here  she 


The  Bishop's  Vagabond. 


"  Burry  me  !  "  exclaimed  the  woman. 
"  Why,  I  ain't  dead  !  " 

Denim  ing  rubbed  his  hands,  his  face 
wearing  an  indescribable  expression  of 
mingled  embarrassment,  contrition,  and 
bland  insinuation.  "  Well,  yes,  Bishop, 
yere  she  is,  an'  no  mistake  !  Nuthin' 
more  'n  a  swond,  you  uunerstan'.  I 
'lowed  ter  notify  you  uns  this  mahnin', 
but  fac'  is  I  wuz  so  decomposed,  fin'in' 
her  traipsin'  'bout  in  the  gyardin  an' 
you  all  'xpectin'  a  fuu'al,  thet  I  jes  hed 
ter  brace  up ;  an'  fac'  is  I  braced  up  too 
much,  an'  ovahslep.  I  'm  powerful  sorry, 
an'  I  don'  blame  you  uns  ef  you  do 
feel  mad  ! " 

The  Bishop  flung  off  his  robes  in 
haste  and  walked  to  the  carriage,  where 
he  bundled  them  iu  with  scant  regard 
for  their  crispness. 

"  Never  heard  of  such  a  thing  !  "  said 
Louise,  that  being  her  invariable  for- 
mula for  occasions  demanding  expres- 
sion before  she  was  prepared  to  commit 
herself.  By  this  time  a  glimmering  no- 
tion of  the  state  of  things  had  reached 
the  coachman's  brain,  and  he  was  in  an 
ecstasy.  Talboys  thought  it  fitting  to 
speak.  He  turned  to  Mrs.  Demming, 
who  was  looking  from  one  to  another  of 
the  group,  in  a  scaled  way. 

"  Were  you  in  a  swoon  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  laws  !  "  cried  the  poor  woman. 

"  Oh,  Demming,  what   hev  you  gwine 

an'  done  now  ?     Gentlemen,  he  did  n't 

mean  no  harm.  I  'm  suah  !  " 

"  You  were  not,  then  ?  "  said  Talboys. 
"  Leave  her  'lone,  Gunnel,"  Demming 
said  quietly.  "  Don'  yo'  see  she  cyan't 
stan'  no  sech  racket  ?  'Sence  yo'  so 
mighty  peart  'bout  it.  no,  she  wahn't, 
an'  thet  thar  's  the  truf.  I  jes  done  it 
fur  ter  raise  money.  It  wuz  this  a  way. 
Thet  thar  mahnin',  w'ile  I  wuz  a-consid- 
erin'  an'  a-contemplatin'  right  smart  how 
I  wuz  evah  to  git  a  few  dollars,  I  seen 
Mose  Barnwell  gwine  'long,  —  yo'  know 
Mose  Barnwell,"  turning  in  an  affable, 
conversational  way  to  the  grinning  ne- 
gro, —  "  an'  he  'd  a  string  o'  crape  'roun' 

his  hat  'cause  he'd  jes  done  loss'  his 
wife,  an'  he  wuz  purportiu'  ter  git  a 
cyoffin.  So  I  'lowed  I'd  git  a  cyoffiu 
fur  him  cheap.  An'  I  reckon,"  said 
Demming,  smiling  graciously  on  his  de- 
lighted black  auditor,  —  "I  reckon  I 
done  it." 

"  Demming,"  cried  the  Bishop,  with 
some  heat,  "  this  exceeds  patience  "  — 

"  I  know,  Bishop,"  answered  the  vag- 
abond meekly,  —  "I  know  it.  I  wuz 
tempted  an'  I  fell,  as  you  talked  'bout 
in  yo'  sermon.  It 's  orful  how  I  kin  do 
sech  things  ! " 

"And  those  chickens,  too!"  ejacu- 
lated the  Bishop,  with  rising  wrath,  as 
new  causes  rushed  to  his  remembrance. 
"  You  stole  chickens,  —  Judge  Eldridge's 
chickens  ;  you  who  pretend  to  be  such 
a  staunch  friend  of  the  North  "  — 

"  Chickens  !  "  screamed  the  woman. 
"  Oh,  Lordy  !  Oh,  he  nevah  done  thet 
afo'e  !  He  '11  be  took  to  jail !  Oh,  Dem- 
ming, how  cyould  ye  ?  Stealin'  chick- 
ens, jes  like  a  low-down,  no-'cyount 
niggah  !  "  Sobs  choked  her  voice,  and 
tears  of  fright  and  shame  were  stream- 
ing down  her  hollow  cheeks. 

Demming  looked  disconcerted.  "  Now, 
look  a-yere  !  "  said  he,  sinking  his  voice 
reproachfully ;  "  w'at  wuz  the  use  o' 
bringin'  thet  thar  up  befo'  th'  ole  'ooman  ? 
She  don'  know  nuthin'  on  it,  you  unner- 
stan',  an'  why  mus'  you  rile  'er  up  fur  ? 
I  'd  not  a  thought  it  o'  you,  Bishop,  thet 
I  wyould  n't.  Now,  Alwynda,"  turning 
to  the  weeping  woman,  who  was  wiping 
her  eyes  with  the  cape  of  her  sunbon- 
net,  "  jes  you  dry  up  an'  stop  yo'  beller- 
in',  an'  I  'splain  it  all  in  a  holy  minnit. 
Thar,  thar,"  patting  her  on  the  shoulder, 
" 't  ain't  nuthin'  ter  cry  'bout;  't  ain't 
no  fault  o'  yourn,  onyhow.  'Fac'  is, 
gen'lemen,  't  wuz  all  'long  o'  my  'precia- 
tion  o'  the  Bishop.  I  'm  a  'Piscopal,  like 
yo'self,  Bishop,  an'  I  tole  Samson  Mob- 
ley  thet  you  overlaid  all  the  preachers 
yere  fur  goodness  an'  shortness  bofe. 
An'  he  'lowed,  'Mabbe  he  may  fur 
goodness ;  I  ain't  no  jedge,'  says  he ; 


The  Bishop's  Vagabond. 


'  but  fo'  shortness,  we  've  a  feller  down 
at  the  Baptis'  kin  beat  'im  outen  sight. 
They  've  jes  'gin  up  sleepin'  down  thar,' 
says  he,  '  'cause  taia't  worth  w'ile.'  So 
we  tried  it  on,  you  unnerstand,  'cause 
thet  riled  me,  an'  I  jes  bet  on  it,  I  did  ; 
an'  we  tried  it  on,  —  you  in  the  mahnin' 
and  him  in  the  arternoon.  An'  laws, 
ef  did  n't  so  happen  as  how  you  'd  a 
powerful  flow  o'  speech  !  'T  wuz  'maz- 
in'  edifyin',  but  't  los'  me  the  bet,  you 
unnerstan' ;  an'  onct  los'  I  hed  ter  pay  ; 
an'  not  havin'  ary  chick  o'  my  own  I 
had  ter  confiscate  some  frum  th'  gineral 
public,  an'  I  tuk  'em  'thout  distinction 
o'  party  frum  the  handiest  cyoop  in  the 
Baptis'  del-nomination.  I  kin'  o'  han- 
kered arter  Baptis'  chickuns,  somehow, 
so  's  ter  git  even,  like.  Now,  Bishop,  I 
jes  leaves  ter  you  uns,  cyould  I  go  back 
on  a  debt  o'  honah,  like  thet  ?  " 

"  Honor ! "  repeated  the  Bishop  scorn- 

Talboys  interposed  again  :  "  We  ap- 
pear to  be  sold,  Bishop ;  don't  you  think 
we  had  better  get  out  of  this  before  the 
hearse  comes  ?  " 

Demming  waved  his  hand  at  Talboys, 
saying  in  his  smoothest  tones,  "  Ef  you 
meet  it,  Gunnel,  p'raps  you  'd  kin'ly 
tell  'em  ter  go  on  ter  Mose  Barnwell's. 
He  's  ready  an'  waitin'." 

"  Demming  "  —  began  the  Bishop,  but 
he  did  not  finish  the  sentence :  instead, 
he  lifted  his  hat  to  Mrs.  Demming,  with 
his  habitual  stately  courtesy,  and  moved 
in  a  slow  and  dignified  manner  to  the 
carriage.  Louise  followed,  only  stopping 
to  say  to  the  still  weeping  woman,  "  He 
is  in  no  danger  from  us ;  but  this  trick 
was  a  poor  return  for  my  father's  kind- 

Demming  had  been  rubbing  his  right 
eyebrow  obliquely  with  his  hand,  thus 
making  a  shield  behind  which  he  winked 
at  the  coachman  in  a  friendly  and  hu- 
morous manner  ;  at  Louise's  words,  his 
hand  fell  and  his  face  changed  quickly. 
"  Don'  say  thet,  miss,"  he  said,  a  ring  of 
real  emotion  in  his  voice.  "  I  know  I  'm 

VOL.  LIII.  —  NO.  315.  3 

purty  po'  pickin's,  but  I  ain't  ongreatful. 
Yo'  par  will  remember  I  wyould  n't  tek 
no  money  frum  him!  " 

"I  would  have  given  fifty  dollars," 
cried  the  Bishop,  "  rather  than  have  had 
this  —  this  scandalous  fraud  !  Drive 

They  drove  away.  The  last  they  saw 
of  Demming  he  was  blandly  waving  his 

The  drive  back  from  the  house  so  un- 
expectedly disclosed  as  not  a  house  of 
mourning  was  somewhat  silent.  The 
Bishop  was  the  first  to  speak.  "  I  shall 
insist  upon  returning  every  cent  of  that 
money,"  he  said. 

"  I  assure  you  none  of  us  will  take 
it,"  Talboys  answered  ;  "and  really,  you 
know,  the  sell  was  quite  worth  the 

"  And  you  did  see  her,  after  all,"  said 
Louise  dryly,  "  standing  in  the  doorway, 
with  her  old  clay  pipe  in  her  mouth." 

The  Bishop  smiled,  but  he  sighed,  too. 
"  Well,  well,  I  ought  not  to  have  lost 
my  temper.  But  I  am  disappointed  in 
Demming.  I  thought  I  had  won  his  af- 
fection, and  I  hoped  through  his  affec- 
tion to  reach  his  conscience.  I  suppose 
I  deceived  myself." 

"  I  fear  he  has  n't  any  conscience  to 
reach,"  Louise  observed. 

"  I  agree  with  Miss  Louise,"  said 
Talboys.  "You  see,  Demming  is  a 

"  Ah  !  the  cracker  has  his  virtues," 
observed  the  Bishop ;  "  not  the  cardi- 
nal New  England  virtues  of  thrift  and 
cleanliness  and  energy  ;  but  he  has  his 
own.  He  is  as  hospitable  as  an  Arab, 
brave,  faithful,  and  honest,  and  full  of 
generosity  and  kindness." 

"  All  the  same,  he  is  n't  half  civilized," 
said  Talboys,  "  and  as  ignorant  morally 
as  any  being  you  can  pick  up.  He  does 
n't  steal  or  lie  much,  I  grant  you,  but 
he  smashes  all  the  other  commandments 
to  flinders.  He  kills  when  he  thinks  he 
has  been  insulted,  and  he  has  n't  the  fee- 
blest scruples  about  changing  his  old 


The  Bishop's  Vagabond. 


wife  for  a  new  one  whenever  he  feels 
like  it,  without  any  nonsense  of  divorce. 
The  women  are  just  as  bad  as  the  men. 
But  Demming  is  not  only  a  cracker ; 
he  is  a  cracker  spoiled  by  the  tourists. 
We  have  despoiled  him  of  his  simplici- 
ty. He  has  n't  learned  any  good  of  us, 
— that  goes  without  saying,  —  but  he  has 
learned  no  end  of  Yankee  tricks.  Do 
you  suppose  that  if  left  to  himself  he 
would  ever  have  been  up  to  this  morn- 
ing's performance  ?  Oh,  we  've  polished 
his  wicked  wits  for  him  !  Even  his  di- 
alect is  no  longer  pure  South  Carolin- 
ian ;  it  is  corrupted  by  Northern  slang. 
We  have  ruined  his  religious  principles, 
too.  The  crackers  have  n't  much  of  any 
morality,  but  they  are  very  religious,  — 
all  Southerners  are.  But  Demming  is 
an  unconscious  Agnostic.  '  I  tell  ye,' 
he  says  to  the  saloon  theologians,  '  thar 
ain't  no  tellin'.  'Ligion  's  a  heap  like 
jumpin'  a'ter  a  waggin  in  th'  dark :  yo' 
mo'  'n  likely  ter  Ian'  onnuthin' ! '  And 
you  have  seen  for  yourselves  that  he  has 
lost  the  cracker  honesty." 

"  At  least,"  said  Louise,  "  he  has  the 
cracker  hospitality  left ;  he  made  us 
welcome  to  all  he  had." 

"  And  did  you  notice,"  said  the  Bish- 
op, who  had  quite  smoothed  his  ruffled 
brow  by  this  time,  —  "  did  you  notice  the 
consideration,  tenderness  almost,  that 
he  showed  to  his  wife  ?  Demming  has 
his  redeeming  qualities,  believe  me,  Mr. 

"  I  see  that  you  don't  mean  to  give 
him  up,"  said  Talboys,  smiling  ;  but  he 
did  not  pursue  the  subject. 

For  several  days  Demming  kept  away 
from  Aiken.  When  he  did  appear  he 
rather  avoided  the  Bishop.  He  bore  the 
jokes  and  satirical  congratulations  of  his 
companions  with  his  usual  equanimity  ; 
but  he  utterly  declined  to  gratify  public 
curiosity  either  at  the  saloon  or  the  gro- 
cery. One  morning  he  met  the  Bishop. 
They  walked  a  long  way  together,  and 
it  was  observed  that  they  seemed  to  be 
on  most  cordial  terms.  This  happened 

on  Tuesday.  Friday  morning  Demming 
came  to  the  Bishop  in  high  spirits.  He 
showed  a  letter  from  a  cousin  in  Charles- 
ton, a  very  old  man,  with  no  near  kin- 
dred and  a  comfortable  property.  This 
cousin,  repenting  of  an  old  injustice  to 
Demming's  mother,  had  bethought  him 
of  Demming,  his  nearest  relative ;  and 
sent  for  him,  inclosing  money  to  pay  all 
expenses.  "  He  is  right  feeble,"  said 
Demming,  with  a  cheerful  accent  not  ac- 
cording with  his  mournful  words,  "  an' 
wants  ter  see  me  onct  fo'  he  departs. 
Reckon  he  means  ter  do  well  by  me." 

The  Bishop's  hopeful  soul  saw  a 
chance  for  the  cracker's  reclamation. 
So  he  spoke  solemnly  to  him,  warning 
him  against  periling  his  future  by  relaps- 
ing into  his  old  courses  in  Charleston. 
Nothing  could  exceed  Demming's  bland 
humility.  He  filled  every  available 
pause  in  the  exhortation  with  "  Thet  's 
so,"  and  "  Shoo  's  yo'  bawn  !  "  and  an- 
swered, "  I  'm  gwine  ter  be 's  keerful  's 
a  ole  coon  thet  's  jes  got  shet  o'  the 
dogs.  You  uevah  said  truer  words  than 
them  thar,  an'  don'  you  forget  it !  I  'm 
gwine  ter  buy  mo'  Ian',  an'  raise  hogs, 
an'  keep  th'  ole  'ooman  like  a  lady. 
Don'  ye  be  'feard  o'  me  gwine  on  no* 
mo'  tears.  No,  sir,  none  o'  thet  in  mine. 
'T  wuz  ony  'cause  I  wuz  so  low  in  my 
min'  I  evah  done  it,  onyhow.  Now,  I  'm 
gwine  ter  be  's  sober 's  a  owl !  " 

Notwithstanding  these  and  similar 
protestations,  hardly  an  hour  was  gone 
before  Demming  was  the  glory  of  the 
saloon,  haranguing  the  crowd  on  his  fa- 
vorite topic,  the  Bishop's  virtues.  "  High- 
toned  gen'leman,  bes'  man  in  the  worT, 
an'  nobody's  fool,  neither.  I  'm  proud 
to  call  him  my  frien',  an'  Aiken  's  put 
in  its  bes'  licks  w'en  it  cured  him.  Gen- 
'lemen,  he  'vised  me  ter  fight  shy  o'  you 
all.  I  reckon  as  how  I  mought  be  bet- 
ter off  ef  I  'd  allus  have  follered  his  am- 
monitions.  Walk  up,  gen'lemen,  an' 
drink  his  health  !  My  'xpens'." 

The  sequel  to  such  toasts  may  readily 
be  imagined.  By  six  o'clock,  penniless 


The  Bishop's  Vagabond. 


and  tipsy,  Deraming  was  apologizing  to 
the  Bishop  on  the  hotel  piazza.  He 
had  the  grace  to  seem  ashamed  of  him- 
self. "  Wust  o'  't  is  flingin'  away  all 
thet  money  ;  but  I  felt  kinder  like  mak- 
in'  everybody  feel  good,  an'  I  set  'em 
up.  An'  't  'appened,  somehow,  they 
wuz  a  right  smart  chance  o'  people  in, 
jes  thet  thar  minit,  —  they  gen'rally  is 
a  right  smart  chance  o'  people  in  when 
a  feller  sets  'em  up !  an'  they  wuz 
powerful  dry,  —  they  gen'rally  is  dry, 
then  ;  an'  the  long  an'  short  o'  't  is,  they 
cleaned  me  out.  An'  now,  Bishop,  I  jes 
feel  nashuated  with  myself.  Suah  's  yo' 
bawn,  Bishop,  I  'm  gwine  ter  reform. 
'  Stop  short,  an'  nevah  go  on  again,'  like 
th^t  thar  clock  in  the  song.  I  am,  fur 
a  fac',  sir.  I  'm  repentin'  to  a  s'prisin' 

"  I  certainly  should  be  surprised  if 
you  were  repentant,"  the  Bishop  said 
dryly ;  then,  after  a  pause,  "  Well,  Dem- 
miug,  I  will  help  you  this  once  again. 
I  will  buy  you  a  ticket  to  Charleston." 

Some  one  had  come  up  to  the  couple 
unperceived  ;  this  person  spoke  quickly  : 
"  Please  let  me  do  that,  Bishop.  Dem- 
ming  has  afforded  me  enough  entertain- 
ment for  that." 

"  You  don'  think  no  gret  shakes  o' 
me,  do  you,  Gunnel  ?  "  said  Demming, 
looking  at  Talboys  half  humorously,  yet 
with  a  shade  of  something  else  in  his 
expression.  "  You  poke  fun  at  me  all  the 
time.  Well,  pleases  you,  an'  don'  hurt 
me,  I  reckon.  JMahnin',  Bishop  ;  maim- 
in',  Gunnel.  I  '11  be  at  th'  deppo." 
He.  waved  his  hand  and  shambled  away. 
Both  men  looked  after  him. 

"  I  will  see  that  he  gets  off,"  said  Tal- 
boys. "  I  leave  Aiken,  myself,  in  the 

"  Leave  Aiken  ?  "  the  Bishop  repeat- 
ed. "  But  you  will  return  ?  " 

"  I  don't  expect  to." 

"  Why,  I  am  sorry  to  hear  that,  Mr. 
Talboys,  —  truly  sorry."  The  Bishop 
took  the  young  man's  hand  and  pressed 
it.  "  I  am  just  beginning  to  know  you ; 

I  may  say,  to  like  you,  if  you  will  per- 
mit the  expression.  Won't  you  walk  in 
with  me  now,  and  say  good-by  to  my 
daughter  ?  " 

"  Thanks,  very  much,  but  I  have  al- 
ready made  my  adieux  to  Miss  Louise." 

"  Ah,  yes,  certainly,"  said  the  Bishop, 

He  was  an  absorbed  clergyman  ;  but 
he  had  sharp  enough  eyes,  did  he  choose 
to  use  them ;  and  Talboys'  reddening 
cheeks  told  him  a  great  deal.  It  can- 
not be  said  that  he  was  sorry  because 
his  daughter  had  not  looked  kindly  on 
this  worldly  and  cynical  young  man's 
affection  ;  but  he  was  certainly  sorry  for 
the  young  man  himself,  and  his  parting 
grasp  of  the  hand  was  warmer  than  it 
would  have  been  but  for  that  fleeting 

"  Poor  fellow,  poor  fellow  ! "  solilo- 
quized the  Bishop,  when,  after  a  few 
cordial  words,  they  had  parted.  "  He 
looks  as  though  it  had  hurt  him.  I  sup- 
pose that  is  the  way  we  all  take  it. 
Well,  time  cures  us :  but  it  would  scarce- 
ly do  to  tell  him  that,  or  how  much  hard- 
er it  is  to  win  a  woman,  find  how  pre- 
cious she  is,  and  then  to  lose  her.  Ah, 
well,  time  helps  even  that.  '  For  the 
strong  years  conquer  us.'  " 

But  he  sighed  as  he  went  back  to  his 
daughter,  and  he  did  not  see  the  beauti- 
ful Miss  Reynolds  when  she  bowed  to 
him,  although  she  was  smiling  her  sweet- 
est and  brightest  smile. 

Louise  sat  in  her  room.  Its  windows 
opened  upon  the  piazza,  and  she  had 
witnessed  the  interview.  She  did  not 
waver  in  her  conviction  that  she  had 
done  right.  She  could  not  wisely  marry 
a  man  whom  she  did  not  respect,  let  his 
charm  of  manner  and  temper  be  what 
it  might.  She  needed  a  man  who  was 
manly,  who  could  rule  other  men  ;  be- 
sides, how  could  she  make  up  her  mind 
to  walk  through  life  with  a  husband 
hardly  above  her  shoulder  ?  Still,  she 
conceded  to  herself  that,  had  Talboys 
compelled  one  thrill  of  admiration  from 


The  Bishop's  Vagabond. 


her  by  any  mental  or  moral  height,  she 
would  not  have  caviled  at  his  short  stat- 
ure. But  there  was  something  ridicu- 
lous in  the  idea  of  Talboys  thrilling 
anybody.  For  one  thing,  he  took  every- 
thing too  lightly.  Suddenly,  with  the 
sharpness  of  a  new  sensation,  she  re- 
membered that  he  had  not  seemed  to 
take  the  morning's  episode  lightly.  Poor 
Martin  !  —  for  the  first  time,  even  in  her 
reveries,  she  called  him  by  his  Christian 
name,  —  there  was  an  uncomfortable 
deal  of  feeling  in  his  few  words.  Yet 
he  was  considerate ;  he  made  it  as  easy 
as  possible  for  her. 

Martin  was  always  considerate ;  he 
never  jarred  on  her  ;  possibly,  the  mas- 
ter mind  might  jar,  being  so  masterful. 
He  was  always  kind,  too ;  continually 
scattering  pleasures  about  in  his  quiet 
fashion.  Such  a  quiet  fashion  it  was 
that  few  people  noticed  how  persistent 
was  the  kindness.  Now  a  hundred  in- 
stances rushed  to  her  mind.  All  at 
once,  recalling  something,  she  blushed 
hotly.  That  morning,  just  as  Talboys 
and  she  were  turning  from  the  place 
where  he  had  asked  and  she  had  an- 
swered, she  caught  a  glimpse  of  Dem- 
ming's  head  through  the  leaves.  He 
had  turned,  also,  and  he  made  a  feint  of 
passing  them,  as  though  he  were  but  that 
instant  walking  by.  The  action  had.  a 
touch  of  delicacy  in  it ;  a  Northerner  of 
Demming's  class  would  not^have  shown 
it.  Louise  felt  grateful  to  the  vaga- 
bond ;  at  the  same  time,  it  was  hardly 
pleasant  to  know  that  he  was  as  wise 
as  she  in  Talboys'  heart  affairs.  As  for 
Talboys  himself,  he  had  not  so  much  as 
seen  Demruing ;  he  had  been  too  much 
occupied  with  his  own  bitter  thoughts. 
Again  Louise  murmured,  "  Poor  Mar- 
tin !  "  What  was  the  need,  though,  that 
her  own  heart  should  be  like  lead  ?  Al- 
most impatiently,  she  rose  and  sought 
her  father. 

The  Bishop,  after  deliberation,  had 
decided  to  accompany  Demming  to 
Charleston.  He  excused  his  interest  in 

the  man  so  elaborately  and  plausibly 
that  his  daughter  was  reminded  of  Tal- 

Saturday  morning  all  three  —  the 
Bishop,  the  vagabond,  and  Talboys  — 
started  for  Charleston.  Talboys,  how- 
ever, did  not  know  that  the  Bishop  was 
going.  He  bought  Demming's  ticket, 
saw  him  safely  to  a  seat,  and  went  into 
the  smoking-car.  The  Bishop  was  late, 
but  the  conductor,  with  true  Southern 
good-nature,  backed  the  train  and  took 
him  aboard.  He  seated  himself  in  front 
of  Demming,  and  began  to  wipe  his 
heated  brow. 

"  Why  do  they  want  to  have  a  fire  in 
the  stove  this  weather  ?  "  said  he. 

"  Well,"  said  the  cracker  slyly,  "  you 
see  we  hain't  all  been  runnin',  an'  we  're 
kinder  chilly  !  " 

"  Humph  !  "  said  the  Bishop.  After 
this  there  was  silence.  The  train  rolled 
along ;  through  the  pine  woods,  past 
small  stations  where  rose-trees  brightened 
trim  white  cottages,  then  into  the  swamp 
lands,  where  the  moisture  painted  the 
bark  of  tall  trees,  and  lay  in  shiny  green 
patches  among  them.  The  Southern 
moss  dripping  from  the  giant  branches 
shrouded  them  in  a  weird  drapery,  soft 
as  mist.  There  was  something  dreary 
and  painful  to  a  Northern  eye,  in  the 
scene ;  the  tall  and  shrouded  trees,  the 
stagnant  pools  of  water  gleaming  among 
them,  the  vivid  green  patches  of  moss, 
the  barren  stretches  of  sand.  The  very 
beauty  in  it  all  seemed  the  unnatural 
glory  of  decay,  repelling  the  beholder. 
Here  and  there  were  cabins.  One  could 
not  look  at  them  without  wondering 
whether  the  inhabitants  had  the  ague, 
or  its  South  Carolina  synonym,  the 
"  break-bone  fever."  At  one,  a  bent  old 
woman  was  washing.  She  lifted  her 
head,  and  Demming  waved  his  hat  at 
her.  Then  he  glanced  at  the  Bishop, 
now  busy  with  a  paper,  and  chuckled 
over  some  recollection.  He  looked  out 
again.  There  was  a  man  running  along 
the  side  of  the  road  waving  a  red  flag. 


The  Bishop's  Vagabond. 


He  called  out  a  few  words,  which  the 
wind  of  the  tram  tore  to  pieces.  At  the 
same  instant,  the  whistle  of  the  engine 
began  a  shrill  outcry.  "  Sunthin'  's  bust, 
I  reckon,"  said  Demming.  And  theu, 
before  he  could  see,  or  know,  or  under- 
stand, a  tremendous  crash  drowned  his 
senses,  and  in  one  awful  moment  blend- 
ed shivering  glass  and  surging  roof  and 
white  faces  like  a  horrible  kaleidoscope. 

The  first  thing  he  noticed,  when  he 
came  to  himself,  was  a  thin  ribbon  of 
smoke.  He  watched  it  lazily,  while  it 
melted  into  the  blue  sky,  and  another 
ribbon  took  its  place.  But  presently 
the  pain  in  his  leg  aroused  him.  He 
perceived  that  the  car  was  lying  on  one 
side,  making  the  other  side  into  a  roof, 
and  one  open  window  was  opposite  his 
eyes.  At  the  other  end  ,the  car  was 
hardly  more  than  a  mass  of  broken  seats 
and  crushed  sides,  but  it  was  almost  in- 
tact where  he  lay.  He  saw  that  the 
stove  had  charred  the  wood-work  near  it ; 
hence  the  smoke,  which  escaped  through 
a  crack  and  floated  above  him.  The 
few  people  in  the  car  were  climbing  out 
of  the  windows  as  best  they  might.  A 
pair  of  grimy  arms  reached  down  to 
Demming,  and  he  heard  the  brakeman's 
voice  (he  knew  Jim  Herndon,  the 
brakeman,  well)  shouting  profanely  for 
the  "  next." 

"  Whar  's  the  Bishop  ?  "  said  Dem- 

"  Reckon  he  's  out,"  answered  Jim. 

"  Mought  as  well  come  yo'self  !  H ! 

you  've  broke  yo'  leg  !  " 

"  Pull  away,  jes  the  same.  I  don' 
wanter  stay  yere  an'  roast !  " 

The  brakeman  pulled  him  through 
the  window.  Demming  shut  his  teeth 
hard  ;  only  the  fear  of  death  could  have 
made  him  bear  the  agony  every  motion 
gave  him. 

The  brakeman  drew  him  to  one  side 
before  he  left  him.  Demming  could  see 
the  wreck  plainly.  A  freight  train  had 
been  thrown  from  the  track,  and  the  pas- 
senger train  had  run  into  it  while  going 

at  full  speed.  "  The  brakes  would  n't 
work,"  Demming  heard  Jim  say.  Now 
the  sight  was  a  sorry  one :  a  heap  of 
rubbish  which  had  been  a  freight  car ; 
the  passenger  engine  sprawling  on  one 
side,  in  the  swamp,  like  a  huge  black 
beetle  ;  and,  near  it,  the  two  foremost 
cars  of  its  train  overturned  and  shattered. 
The  people  of  both  trains  were  gathered 
about  the  wreck,  helplessly  talking,  as 
is  the  manner  of  people  in  an  accident. 
They  were,  most  of  them,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  track.  No  one  had  been 
killed ;  but  some  were  wounded,  and 
were  stretched  in  a  ghastly  row  on  car 
cushions.  The  few  women  and  children 
in  the  train  were  collected  about  the 

"  Is  the  last  man  out  ?  "  shouted  the 

Jim  answered,  "  Yes,  all  out  —  no, 
d it !  I  see  a  coat  tail  down  here." 

"  Look  at  the  fire  ! "  screamed  a  wo- 
man. "  Oh,  God  help  him  !  The  car  's 
afire  !  " 

"  He 's  gone  up,  whoever  he  is,"  mut- 
tered Jim.  "  They  ain't  an  axe  nor 
nuthin'  on  board,  an'  he's  wedged  in 
fast.  But  come  on,  boys  !  I  '11  drop  in 
onct  mo' !  " 

"  You  go  with  him,"  another  man 
said.  "  Here,  you  fellows,  I  can  run 
fastest ;  I  '11  go  to  the  cabin  for  an 
axe.  Some  of  you  follow  me  for  some 
water  !  " 

Demming  saw  the  speaker  for  an  in- 
stant, —  an  erect  little  figure  in  a  foppish 
gray  suit,  with  a  "  cat's  eye  "  gleaming 
from  his  blue  cravat.  One  instant  he 
stood  on  the  piece  of  timber  upon  which 
he  had  jumped  ;  the  next  he  had  flung 
off  his  coat,  and  was  speeding  down  the 
road  like  a  hare. 

"  D ef  't  ain't  the  Cunnel,"  said 


"  Come  on  ! "  shouted  Talboys,  never 
slackening  his  speed.  "  Hurry  !  " 

The  men  went.  Demming,  weak  with 
pain,  was  content  to  look  across  the 
gap  between  the  trains  and  watch  those 


The  Bishop's  Vagabond. 


left  behind.  The  smoke  was  growing 
denser  now,  and  tongues  of  flame  shot 
out  between  the  joints  of  wood.  They 
said  the  man  was  at  the  other  end. 
Happily,  the  wind  blew  the  fire  from 
him.  Jim  and  two  other  men  climbed  in, 
again.  Demming  could  hear  them  swear- 
ing and  shouting.  He  looked  anxiously 
about,  seeking  a  familiar  figure  which 
he  could  not  find.  He  thought  it  the 
voice  of  his  own  fears,  that  cry  from 
within  the  car.  "  Good  God,  it 's  the 
Bishop !  "  But  immediately  Jim  thrust 
his  head  out  of  the  window,  and  called, 
"  The  Bishop  's  in  hyar  !  Under  the  cyar 
seats  !  He  ain't  hurt,  but  we  cyant  move 
the  infernal  things  ter  get  him  out ! " 

"  Oh,  Lordy  !  "  groaned  the  vaga- 
bond ;  "  an'  I  'm  so  broke  up  I  cyant  liff' 
a  han'  ter  help  him  !  " 

In  desperation,  the  men  outside  tried 
to  batter  down  the  car  walls  with  a 
broken  tree  limb.  Inside,  they  strained 
feverishly  at  the  heavy  timbers.  Vain 
efforts  all,  at  which  the  crackling  flames, 
crawling  always  nearer,  seemed  to  mock. 

Demming  could  hear  the  talk,  the 
pitying  comments,  the  praise  of  the  Bish- 
op :  "  Such  a  good  man  !  "  "  His  poor 
daughter,  the  only  child,  and  her  mother 
dead !  "  "  They  were  so  fond  of  each 
other,  poor  thing,  poor  thing  !  "  And  a 
soft  voice  added,  "  Let  us  pray  !  " 

"  Prayin',''  muttered  Demming,  "  jes 
like  wimmen  !  Laws,  they  don't  know 
no  better.  How  '11  I  git  ter  him  ?  " 

He  began  to  crawl  to  the  car,  drag- 
ging his  shattered  leg  behind  him,  reck- 
less of  the  throbs  of  pain  it  sent  through 
his  nerves.  "  Ef  I  kin  ony  stan'  it  till 
I  git  ter  him  !  "  he  moaned.  "  Burnin' 
alive  's  harder  nor  this."  He  felt  the  hot 
smoke  on  his  face  ;  he  heard  the  snap- 
ping and  roaring  of  the  fire  ;  he  saw  the 
men  about  the  car  pull  out  Jim  and  his 
companions,  and  perceived  that  their 
faces  were  blackened. 

"  It  '11  cotch  me,  suah  's  death !  "  said 
Demming  between  his  teeth.  "  Well, 
't  ain't  much  raattah !  "  Mustering  all  his 

strength  he  pulled  himself  up  to  the  car 
window  below  that  from  which  Jim  had 
just  emerged.  The  crowd,  occupied  with 
the  helpless  rescuers,  had  not  observed 
him  before.  They  shouted  at  him  as 
one  man  :  "  Get  down,  it 's  too  late  !  " 

"  You  're  crazy,  you !  "  yelled  Jim, 

with  an  oath. 

"  Never  you  min',"  Demming  an- 
swered coolly.  "  I  know  what  I  'in  'bout, 
I  reckon." 

He  had  taken  his  revolver  from  his 
breast,  and  was  searching  through  his 
pockets.  He  soon  pulled  out  what  he 
sought,  merely  a  piece  of  stout  twine  ; 
and  the  crowd  saw  him,  sitting  astride 
the  trucks,  while  he  tied  the  string 
about  the  handle  of  the  weapon.  Then 
he  leaned  over  the  prison  walls,  and 
looked  down  upon  the  Bishop.  Under 
the  mass  of  wood  and  iron  the  Bishop 
lay,  unhurt  but  securely  imprisoned ; 
yet  he  had  never  advanced  to  the  chan- 
cel rails  with  a  calmer  face  than  that  he 
lifted  to  his  friend. 

"  Demming,"  he  cried,  "  you  here  ! 
Go  back,  I  implore  you !  You  can't 
save  me." 

"  I  know  thet,  Bishop,"  groaned  the 
cracker.  "  I  ain't  tryin'  ter.  But  I 

cyan't  let  you  roast  in  this  yere  d 

barbecue  !  Look  a  yere  !  "  He  low- 
ered the  revolver  through  the  window. 
"  Thar 's  a  pistil,  an'  w'en  th'  fire  cotches 
onter  you  an'  yo'  gwine  suah  's  shootin', 
then  put  it  ter  yo'  head  an'  pull  the 
trigger,  an'  yo  '11  be  outen  it  all !  " 

The  Bishop's  firm  pale  face  grew  paler 
as  he  answered,  "  Don't  tempt  me, 
Demming  !  Whatever  God  sends  I  must 
bear.  I  can't  do  it !  "  Demming  paused. 
He  looked  steadily  at  the  Bishop  for  a 
second ;  then  he  raised  the  revolver, 
with  a  little  quiver  of  his  mouth.  "  And 
go  away,  for  God's  sake,  my  poor 
friend  !  Bear  my  love  to  my  dear,  dear 
daughter ;  tell  her  that  she  has  always 
been  a  blessing  and  a  joy  to  me.  And 
remember  what  I  have  said  to  you, 
yourself.  It  will  be  worth  dying  for 


The  Bishop's  Vagabond. 


if  you  will  do  that ;  it  will,  indeed.  It 
is  only  a  short  pain,  and  then  heaven  ! 
Now  go,  Demniing.  God  bless  and 
keep  you.  Go  !  " 

But  Demming  did  not  move.  "  Don' 
you  want  ter  say  a  prayer,  Bishop  ? " 
he  said  in  a  coaxing  tone,  —  "  jes  a  lit- 
tle mite  o'  one  fur  you  an'  me  ?  Ye  don' 
need  ter  min'  'bout  sayiu'  't  loud.  I  '11 
unnerstan'  th'  intention,  an'  feel  jes  so 
edified.  I  will,  fur  a  fac." 

"Go,  first,  Demming.  I  am  afraid 
for  you !  " 

"  I  'm  a-gwine,  Bishop,"  said  Dem- 
ming, in  the  same  soft,  coaxing  tone. 
"  Don'  min'  me.  I  'm  all  right."  He 
crouched  down  lower,  so  that  the  Bishop 
could  not  see  him,  and  the  group  below 
saw  him  rest  the  muzzle  of  the  pistol 
on  the  window-sill  and  take -aim. 

A  gasp  ran  through  the  crowd,  —  that 
catching  of  the  breath  in  which  over- 
taxed  feeling  relieves  itself.  "  He  's 
doiu'  the  las'  kindness  he  can  to  him," 
said  the  brakeman  to  the  conductor, 
"  and  by  the  Lord,  he 's  giv'  his  own 
life  to  do  it !  " 

The  flames  had  pierced  the  roof,  and 
streamed  up  to  the  sky.  Through  the 
sickening,  dull  roar  they  heard  the  Bish- 
op's voice  again  :  — 

"  Demming,  are  you  gone  ?  " 

The  cracker  struck  a  loose  piece  of 
wood,  and  sent  it  clattering  down.  "  Yes, 
Bishop,  that  wuz  me.  I  'm  safe  on  th' 
groun'.  Good-by,  Bishop.  I  do  feel 
'bleeged  ter  you ;  an',  Bishop,  them  chick- 
ens wuz  the  fust  time.  They  wuz,  on 
my  houah.  Now,  Bishop,  shet  yo'  eyes 
an'  pray,  fur  it 's  a-comin  !  " 

The  Bishop  prayed.  They  could  not 
hear  what  he  said,  below.  No  one  heard 
save  the  uncouth  being  who  clung  to 
the  window,  revolver  in  hand,  steadily 
dying  the  creeping  red  death.  But  they 
knew  that,  out  of  sight,  a  man  who 
Aad  smiled  on  them,  full  of  life  and 
hope,  but  an  hour  ago  was  facing  such 
torture  as  had  tried  the  martyr's  cour- 
age, and  facing  it  with  as  high  a  faith. 

With  one  accord  men  and  women 
bent  their  heads.  Jim,  the  brakeman, 
alone  remained  standing,  his  form  erect, 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  two  iron  lines  that 
made  an  angle  away  in  the  horizon. 
"  Come  on  !  "  he  yelled,  leaping  wildly 
into  the  air.  "  Fo'  the  Lord's  sake,  hur- 
ry !  D him,  but  he  's  the  bulliest 

runner !  " 

Then  they  all  saw  a  man  flying  down 
the  track,  axe  in  hand.  He  ran  up  to 
the  car  side.  He  began  to  climb.  A 
dozen  hands  caught  him.  "  You  're  a 
dead  man  if  you  get  in  there !  "  was  the 
cry.  "  Don't  you  see  it 's  all  afire  ?  " 

"  Try  it  from  the  outside,  Colonel !  " 
said  the  conductor. 

"  Don't  you  see  I  have  n't  time  ?  " 
cried  Talboys.  "  He  '11  be  dead  before 
we  can  get  to  him.  Stand  back,  my 
men,  and,  Jim,  be  ready  to  pull  us  both 
out ! " 

The  steady  tones  and  Talboys'  busi- 
ness-like air  had  an  instantaneous  effect. 
The  crowd  were  willing  enough  to  be 
led  ;  they  fell  back,  and  Talboys  dropped 
through  the  window.  To  those  outside 
the  whole  car  seemed  in  a  blaze,  and 
over  them  the  smoke  hung  like  a  pall ; 
but  through  the  crackling  and  roaring 
and  the  crash  of  falling  timber  came 
the  clear  ring  of  axe  blows,  and  Tal- 
boys' voice  shouting,  "  I  say,  my  man, 
don't  lose  heart  1  We  're  bound  to  get 
you  out ! " 

"  Lordy,  he  don't  know  who  't  is," 
said  Demming.  "  Nobody  could  see 
through  that  thar  smoke  !  " 

All  at  once  the  uninjured  side  of  the 
car  gave  way  beneath  the  flames,  falling 
in  with  an  immense  crash.  The  flame 
leaped  into  the  air. 

"  They  're  gone  !  "  cried  the  conduc- 

"  No,  they  're  not ! "  yelled  Demming. 
"  He  's  got  him,  safe  an'  soun' !  "  And 
as  he  spoke,  scorched  and  covered  with 
dust,  bleeding  from  a  cut  on  his  cheek 
but  holding  the  Bishop  in  his  arms,  Tal- 
boys appeared  at  the  window.  Jim 


The  Bishop's  Vagabond. 


snatched  the  Bishop,  the  conductor 
helped  out  Talboys,  and  half  a  dozen 
hands  laid  hold  of  Demming.  He  heard 
the  wild  cheer  that  greeted  them ;  he 
heard  another  cheer  for  the  men  with  the 
water,  just  in  sight ;  but  he  heard  no  more, 
for  as  they  pulled  him  down  a  dozen 
fiery  pincers  seemed  tearing  at  his  leg, 
and  he  fainted  dead  away. 

The  Bishop's  daughter  sat  in  her 
room,  making  a  very  pretty  picture,  with 
her  white  hands  clasped  on  her  knee 
and  her  soft  eyes  uplifted.  She  looked 
sad  enough  to  please  a  pre-Raphaelite 
of  sentiment.  Yet  her  father,  whom 
this  morning  she  would  have  declared 
she  loved  better  than  any  one  in  the 
world,  had  just  been  saved  from  a  fright- 
ful death.  She  knew  the  story  of  his 
deliverance.  At  last  she  felt  that  most 
unexpected  thrill  of  admiration  for  Tal- 
boys ;  but  Talboys  had  vanished.  He 
was  gone,  it  was  all  ended,  and  she 
owned  to  herself  that  she  was  wretched. 
Her  father  was  with  Demming  and  the 
doctors.  The  poor  vagabond  must  hob- 
ble through  life  on  one  leg,  hencefor- 
ward. "  If  he  lived,"  the  doctor  had 
said,  making  even  his  existence  as  a 
cripple  problematic.  Poor  Demming, 
who  had  flung  away  his  life  to  save  her 
father  from  suffering,  —  a  needless,  use- 
less sacrifice,  as  it  proved,  but  touching 
Louise  the  more  because  of  its  very 
failure ! 

At  this  stage  in  her  thoughts,  she 
heard  Sam,  the  waiter,  knocking  softly, 
outside.  Her  first  question  was  about 
Demming.  "  The  operation  's  ovah,  miss, 
an'  Mr.  Demming  he  's  sinkin',"  an- 
swered Sam,  giving  the  sick  man  a  title 
he  had  never  accorded  him  before,  "an* 
he  axes  if  you'd  be  so  kin'  's  to  step 
in  an'  speak  to  him  ;  he  's  powerful  anx- 
ious to  see  you." 

Silently  Louise  rose  and  followed  the 
mulatto.  They  had  carried  Demming 
to  the  hotel :  it  was  the  nearest  place, 
and  the  Bishop  wished  it.  His  wife  had 

been  sent  for,  and  was  with  him.  Her 
timid,  tear-stained  face  was  the  first  ob- 
ject that  met  Louise's  eye.  She  sat  in 
a  rocking-chair  close  to  the  bed,  and,  by 
sheer  force  of  habit,  was  unconsciously 
rocking  to  and  fro,  while  she  brushed  the 
tears  from  her  eyes.  Demming's  white 
face  and  tangle  of  iron-gray  hair  lay  on 
the  pillow  near  her. 

He  smiled  feebly,  seeing  Louise.  She 
did  not  know  anything  better  to  do  than 
to  take  his  hand,  the  tears  brightening 
her  soft  eyes.  "  Laws,"  said  Demming, 
"  don'  do  thet.  I  ain't  wuth  it.  Look 
a  yere,  I  got  sun'thin'  ter  say  ter  you. 
An'  you  must  n't  min',  'cause  I  mean 
well.  You  know  'bout  —  yes'day  mahn- 
in'.  Mabbe  you  done  what  you  done 
not  knowin'  yo'  own  min',  —  laws,  thet's 
jes  girls,  —  an'  I  wants  you  ter  know 
jes  what  kin'  o'  feller  he  is.  You  know 
he  saved  yo'  pa,  but  you  don'  know, 
mabbe,  thet  he  did  n't  know  't  was  the 
Bishop  till  he  'd  jump  down  in  thet  thar 
flamin'  pit  o*  hell,  as  't  were,  an'  fished 
him  out.  He  done  it  jes  'cause  he  'd  thet 
pluck  in  him,  an'  —  don'  you  go  fer  ter 
chippin'  in,  Gunnel.  I  'm  a  dyiri*  man, 
an'  don'  you  forget  it !  Thar  he  is,  miss, 
hidin'  like  behin'  the  bed." 

Louise  during  this  speech  had  grown 
red  to  the  roots  of  her  hair.  She  looked 
up  into  Talboys'  face.  He  had  stepped 
forward.  His  usual  composure  had 
quite  left  him,  so  that  he  made  a  pitiful 
picture  of  embarrassment,  not  helped 
by  crumpled  linen  and  a  borrowed  coat 
a  world  too  large  for  him.  "  It 's  just 
a  whim  of  his,"  he  whispered  hurriedly  ; 
"  he  wanted  me  to  stay.  I  did  n't  know 
—  I  did  n't  understand  !  For  God's 
sake,  don't  suppose  I  meant  to  take  such 
an  advantage  of  the  situation  !  I  am 
going  directly.  I  shall  leave  Aiken  to- 

It  was  only  the  strain  on  her  nerves, 
but  Louise  felt  the  oddest  desire  to 
laugh.  The  elegant  Martin  cut  such  a 
very  droll  figure  as  a  hero.  Then  her  eye 
fell  on  Demming's  eager  face,  and  a  sud- 


The  Bishop's   Vagabond. 


den  revulsion  of  feeling,  a  sudden  keen 
realization  of  the  tragedy  that  Martin 
had  averted,  brought  the  tears  back  to 
her  eyes.  Her  beautiful  head  dropped. 
"  Why  do  you  go  —  now  ?  "  said  she. 

" Hev  you  uns  made  it  up,  yet?" 
murmured  Demming's  faint  voice. 

"Yes,"  Talboys  answered,  "I  think 
we  have,  and  —  I  thank  you,  Demming." 
The  vagabond  waved  his  hand  with  a 
feeble  assumption  of  his  familiar  ges- 
ture. "  Yo'  a  square  man,  Gunnel.  I 
all  us  set  a  heap  by  you,  though  I  did  n't 
let  on.  An'  she  's  a  right  peart  young 
lady.  I'm  glad  yo'  gwine  ter  be  so 
happy.  Laws,  I  kind  o'  wish  I  wuz  to 
see  it,  even  on  a  wooden  leg  "  —  The 
woman  at  his  side  began  to  sob.  "  Thar, 
thar,  Alwynda,  don'  take  on  so ;  cyan't 
be  helped.  You  urns'  'scuse  her,  gen'le- 
men ;  she  so  petted  on  me  she  jes  cyan't 
hole  in  ! " 

"  Demming,"  said  the  Bishop,  "  my 
poor  friend,  the  time  is  short ;  is  there 
anything  you  want  me  to  do  ?  "  Dem- 
ming's dull  eyes  sparkled  with  a  glim- 
mer of  the  old  humor. 

"  Well,  Bishop,  ef  you  don'  min',  I  'd 
like  you  ter  conduc'  the  fun'al  services. 
Reckon  they  '11  be  a  genuwine  co'pse 
this  yere  time,  fo'  suah.  An',  Bishop, 
you  '11  kind  o'  look  a'ter  Alwynda  ;  see 
she  gets  her  coffee  an'  terbacco  all  right. 
An'  I  wants  ter  'sure  you  all  again  thet 
them  thar  chickens  wuz  the  fust  an'  ony 
thing  I  evah  laid  ban's  on  t'  want  mine. 
Thet 's  the  solemn  truf ;  ain't  it,  Alwyn- 
da ?  " 

The  poor  woman  could  only  rock 
herself  in  the  chair,  and  sob,  "  Yes,  't 
is.  An'  he  's  been  a  good  husband  to 
me.  I  've  allus  bed  the  bes'  uv  every- 
thing !  Oh,  Lordy,  'pears  's  though  I 
cyan't  bear  it,  nohow  !  " 

Louise  put  her  hand  gently  on  the 
thin  shoulder,  saying,  "  I  will  see  that 
she  never  wants  anything  we  can  give, 

Demming ;  and  we  will  try  to  comfort 

The  cracker  looked  wistfully  from 
her  fresh,  young  face  to  the  worn  face 
below.  "  She  wuz  's  peart  an'  purty  's 
you,  miss,  w'en  I  fust  struck  up  with 
'er,"  said  he  slowly.  "  Our  little  gal  wuz 
her  very  image.  Alwynda,"  in  a  singu- 
larly soft,  almost  diffident  tone,  "  don' 
take  on  so ;  mabbe  I  'm  gwine  fer  ter 
see  'er  again.  'T  won't  do  no  harm  ter 
think  so,  onyhow,"  he  added,  with  a 
glance  at  Talboys,  as  though  sure  there 
of  comprehension. 

Then  the  Bishop  spoke,  solemnly, 
though  with  sympathy,  urging  the  dying 
man,  whose  worldly  affairs  were  settled, 
to  repent  of  his  sins  and  prepare  for 
eternity.  "  Shall  I  pray  for  you,  Dem- 
ming ?  "  he  said  in  conclusion. 

"Jes  as  you  please,  Bishop,"  an- 
swered Demming,  and  he  tried  to  wave 
his  hand.  "  I  ain't  noways  partickler. 
I  reckon  God  a'mighty  knows  I  'd  be 
th'  same  ole  Demming  ef  I  could  get  up, 
an'  I  don'  mean  ter  make  no  purtenses. 
But  mabbe  it  '11  cheer  up  th'  ole  'ooman 
a  bit.  So  you  begin,  an'  I  '11  bring  in  an 
Amen  whenever  it 's  wanted  !  " 

So  .speaking,  Demming  closed  his 
eyes  wearily,  and  the  Bishop  knelt  by 
the  bedside.  Talboys  and  Louise  left 
them,  thus.  After  a  while,  the  wife 
stretched  forth  her  toil-worn  hand  and 
took  her  husband's.  She  thought  she 
was  aware  of  a  weak  pressure.  But 
when  the  prayer  ended  there  came  no 
Amen.  Demming  was  gone  where  pray- 
er may  only  faintly  follow ;  nor  could 
the  Bishop  ever  decide  how  far.  his  vag- 
abond had  joined  in  his  petitions.  Such 
doubts,  however,  did  not  prevent  his 
cherishing  an  assured  hope  that  the 
man  who  died  for  him  was  safe,  for- 
ever. The  Bishop's  theology,  like  that 
of  most  of  us,  yielded,  sometimes,  to 
the  demands  of  the  occasion. 

Octave    Thanet. 


Ivan  Turggneiff. 



WHEN  the  mortal  remains  of  Ivan 
Turgeuieff  were  about  to  be  transport- 
ed from  Paris  for  interment  in  his  own 
country,  a  short  commemorative  service 
was  held  at  the  Gare  du  Nord.  Ernest 
Renan  and  Edinond  About,  standing  be- 
side the  train  in  which  his  coffin  had 
been  placed,  bade  farewell  in  the  name 
of  the  French  people  to  the  illustrious 
stranger  who  for  so  many  years  had 
been  their  honored  and  grateful  guest. 
M.  Renan  made  a  beautiful  speech,  and 
M.  About  a  very  clever  one,  and  each 
of  them  characterized  with  ingenuity 
the  genius  and  the  moral  nature  of 
the  most  touching  of  writers,  the  most 
lovable  of  men.  "  Turgenieff,"  said  M. 
Renan,  "received  by  the  mysterious 
decree  which  marks  out  human  voca- 
tions the  gift  which  is  noble  beyond  all 
others :  he  was  born  essentially  imper- 
sonal." The  passage  is  so  eloquent  that 
I  shall  repeat  the  whole  of  it :  "  His 
conscience  was  not  that  of  an  individ- 
ual to  whom  nature  had  been  more  or 
less  generous ;  it  was  in  some  sort  the 
conscience  of  a  people.  Before  he  was 
born  he  had  lived  for  thousands  of 
years ;  infinite  successions  of  reveries 
had  amassed  themselves  in  the  bot- 
tom of  his  heart.  No  man  has  been  as 
much  as  he  the  incarnation  of  a  whole 
race;  generations  of  ancestors,  lost  in 
the  sleep  of  centuries,  speechless,  came 
through  him  to  life  and  utterance." 

I  quote  these  lines  for  the  pleasure  of 
quoting  them ;  for  while  I  see  what  M. 
Renan  means  by  calling  Turgenieff  im- 
personal, it  has  been  my  wish  to  devote 
to  his  delightful  memory  a  few  pages 
written  under  the  impression  of  his  per- 
sonal character.  He  seems  to  us  imper- 
sonal, because  it  is  from  his  writings  al- 
most alone  that  we  of  English,  French, 
and  German  speech  have  derived  our  no- 
tions—  even  yet,  I  fear,  rather  meagre 

and  erroneous  —  of  the  Russian  people. 
His  genius  for  us  is  the  Slav  genius ; 
his  voice  the  voice  of  those  vaguely  im- 
agined multitudes  whom  we  think  of 
more  and  more  to-day  as  waiting  their 
turn,  in  the  arena  of  civilization,  in  the 
gray  expanses  of  the  North.  There  is 
much  in  his  writings  to  encourage  this 
view,  and  it  is  certain  that  he  interpreted 
with  wonderful  vividness  the  tempera- 
ment of  his  fellow-countrymen.  Cosmop- 
olite that  he  had  become  by  the  force  of 
circumstances,  his  roots  had  never  been 
loosened  in  his  native  soil.  The  igno- 
rance with  regard  to  Russia  and  the  Rus- 
sians which  he  found 'in  abundance  in 
the  rest  of  Europe  —  and  not  least  in 
the  country  he  inhabited  for  ten  years 
before  his  death  —  had  indeed  the  effect, 
to  a  certain  degree,  to  throw  him  back 
upon  the  deep  feelings  that  so  many  of 
his  companions  were  unable  to  share 
with  him,  the  memories  of  his  early 
years,  the  sense  of  wide  Russian  hori- 
zons, the  joy  and  pride  of  his  mother- 
tongue.  In  the  collection  of  short  pieces, 
so  deeply  interesting,  written  during  the 
last  few  years  of  his  life,  and  trans- 
lated into  German  under  the  name  of 
Senilia,  I  find  a  passage  —  it  is  the  last 
in  the  little  book  —  which  illustrates  per- 
fectly this  reversionary  impulse  :  "  In 
days  of  doubt,  in  days  of  anxious  thought 
on  the  destiny  of  my  native  land,  thou 
alone  art  my  support  and  my  staff,  O 
great,  powerful,  Russian  tongue,  truthful 
and  free  !  If  it  were  not  for  thee,  how 
should  man  not  despair  at  the  sight  of 
what  is  going  on  at  home  ?  But  it  is 
inconceivable  that  such  a  language  has 
not  been  given  to  a  great  people."  This 
national,  home-loving  note  pervades  his 
productions,  though  it  is  between  the 
lines,  as  it  were,  that  we  must  listen  for 
it.  None  the  less  does  it  remain  true 
that  he  was  a  very  definite  individual. 


Ivan  Turgenieff. 


He  was  not  a  simple  conduit  or  mouth- 
piece ;  the  inspiration  was  his  own  as 
well  as  the  voice.  He  was  a  person, 
in  other  words,  of  the  most  substantial 
kind,  and  those  who  had  the  happiness 
to  know  him  have  no  difficulty  to-day 
in  thinking  of  him  as  a  detached  and 
responsible  figure.  This  pleasure,  for 
the  writer  of  these  lines,  was  as  great  as 
the  pleasure  of  reading  the  admirable 
tales  into  which  he  put  such  a  world  of 
life  and  feeling  ;  it  was  perhaps  even 
greater,  for  it  was  not  only  with  the 
pen  that  nature  had  given  Turgenieff 
the  power  to  express  himself.  He  was 
the  richest,  the  most  delightful,  of  talk- 
ers, and  his  face,  his  person,  his  temper, 
the  thoroughness  with  which  he  had  been 
equipped  for  human  intercourse,  make 
in  the  memory  of  his  friends  an  image 
which  is  completed,  but  not  thrown  into 
the  shade,  by  his  literary  distinction. 
The  whole  image  is  touched  with  sad- 
ness :  partly  because  the  element  of  mel- 
ancholy in  his  nature  was  deep  and  con- 
stant —  readers  of  his  novels  have  no 
need  to  be  told  of  that ;  and  partly  be- 
cause, during  the  last  years  of  his  life, 
he  had  been  condemned  to  suffer  atro- 
ciously. Intolerable  pain  had  been  his 
portion  for  many  months  before  he  died  ; 
his  end  was  not  serene  and  propitious, 
but  dark  and  almost  violent.  But  of 
brightness,  of  the  faculty  of  enjoyment, 
he  had  also  the  large  allowance  usually 
made  to  first-rate  men,  and  he  was  a 
singularly  complete  human  being.  I  had 
greatly  admired  his  writings  before  I 
had  the  fortune  to  make  his  acquaint- 
ance, and  this  privilege,  when  it  pre- 
sented itself,  was  highly  illuminating. 
The  man  and  the  writer  together  occu- 
pied from  that  moment  a  very  high  place 
in  my  affections.  Some  time  before 
knowing  him  I  committed  to  print  cer- 
tain reflections  which  his  tales  had  led  me 
to  make  ;  and  I  may  perhaps,  therefore, 
without  impropriety  give  them  a  supple- 
ment which  shall  have  a  more  vivifying 
reference.  It  is  almost  irresistible  to 

attempt  to  say,  from  one's  own  point  of 
view,  what  manner  of  man  he  was. 

It  was  in  consequence  of  the  article 
I  just  mentioned  that  I  found  reason  to 
meet  him,  in  Paris,  where  he  was  then 
living,  in  1875.  I  shall  never  forgot 
the  impression  he  made  upon  me  at  that 
first  mterview.  I  found  him  adorable  ; 
I  could  scarcely  believe  that  he  would 
prove  —  that  any  man  could  prove  — 
on  nearer  acquaintance  as  delightful  as 
that.  Nearer  acquaintance  only  con- 
firmed my  hope,  and  he  remained  the 
most  approachable,  the  most  practicable, 
the  least  precarious,  man  of  genius  it 
has  been  my  fortune  to  meet.  He  was 
so  simple,  so  natural,  so  modest,  so  des- 
titute of  personal  pretension  and  of 
what  is  called  the  consciousness  of  pow- 
ers, that  one  almost  doubted  at  moments 
whether  he  were  a  man  of  genius,  after 
all.  Everything  good  and  fruitful  lay 
near  to  him  ;  he  was  interested  in  every- 
thing ;  and  he  was  absolutely  without 
that  eagerness  of  self-reference  which 
sometimes  accompanies  great,  and  even 
small,  reputations.  He  had  not  a  parti- 
cle of  vanity  ;  nothing  whatever  of  the 
air  of  having  a  part  to  play,  or  a  repu- 
tation to  keep  up.  His  humor  exercised 
itself  as  freely  upon  himself  as  upon 
other  subjects,  and  he  told  stories  at  his 
own  expense  with  a  sweetness  of  hilar- 
ity which  made  his  peculiarities  really 
sacred  in  the  eyes  of  a  friend.  I  re- 
member vividly  the  smile  and  tone  of 
voice  with  which  he  once  repeated  to 
me  a  figurative  epithet  which  Gustave 
Flaubert  (of  whom  he  was  extremely 
fond)  had  applied  to  him  —  an  epithet 
intended  to  characterize  a  certain  ex- 
pansive softness,  a  comprehensive  inde- 
cision, which  pervaded  his  nature,  just 
as  it  pervades  so  many  of  the  characters 
he  has  described.  He  enjoyed  Flau- 
bert's use  of  this  term,  good-natured- 
ly opprobrious,  more  even  than  Flau- 
bert himself,  and  recognized  perfectly 
the  element  of  truth  in  it.  He  was 
natural  to  an  extraordinary  degree ;  I 


Ivan  Turgenieff. 


do  not  think  I  have  ever  seen  his  match 
in  this  respect,  certainly  not  among  peo- 
ple who  bear,  as  he  did,  at  the  same 
time  the  stamp  of  the  highest  cultiva- 
tion. Like  all  men  of  a  large  pattern, 
he  was  composed  of  many  different  ele- 
ments ;  and  what  was  always  striking  in 
him  was  the  mixture  of  simplicitytwith 
the  fruit  of  the  most  various  observa- 
tion. In  the  little  article  in  which  I 
had  attempted  to  express  my  admira- 
tion for  his  works,  I  had  been  moved  to 
say  of  him  that  he  had  the  aristocratic 
temperament ;  a  remark  which,  in  the 
light  of  further  knowledge,  seemed  to 
me  singularly  inane.  He  was  not  sub- 
ject to  any  definition  of  that  sort,  and  to 
say  that  he  was  democratic  would  be 
(though  his  political  ideal  was  a  democ- 
racy) to  give  an  equally  superficial  ac- 
count of  him.  He  felt  and  understood 
the  opposite  sides  of  life ;  he  was  im- 
aginative, humorous,  ironical.  He  had 
not  in  his  mind  a  grain  of  prejudice  as 
large  as  the  point  of  a  needle,  and  peo- 
ple (there  are  many)  who  think  this  a 
defect  would  have  missed  it  immensely 
in  Ivan  Sergeievitch.  Our  Anglo-Sax- 
on, Protestant,  moralistic,  conventional 
standards  were  far  away  from  him,  and 
he  judged  things  with  a  freedom  and 
spontaneity  in  which  I  found  a  perpetual 
refreshment.  His  sense  of  beauty,  his 
love  of  truth  and  right,  were  the  foun- 
dation of  his  nature ;  but  half  the  charm 
of  conversation  with  him  was  that  one 
breathed  an  air  in  which  cant  phrases 
and  arbitrary  measurements  simply 
sounded  ridiculous. 

I  may  add  that  it  was  not  because  I 
had  written  a  laudatory  article  about  his 
books  that  he  gave  me  a  friendly  wel- 
come ;  for  in  the  first  place  my  article 
could  have  very  little  importance  for 
him,  and  in  the  second  it  had  never  been 
either  his  habit  or  his  hope  to  bask  in 
the  light  of  criticism.  Supremely  mod- 
est as  he  was,  I  think  he  attached  no 
great  weight  to  what  might  happen  to 
be  said  about  him  ;  for  he  felt  that  he 

was  destined  to  encounter  a  very  small 
amount  of  intelligent  appreciation,  es- 
pecially in  foreign  countries.  I  never 
heard  him  even  allude  to  any  judgment 
which  might  have  been  passed  upon  his 
productions  in  England.  In  France  he 
knew  that  he  was  read  very  moderately  ; 
the  "  demand  "  for  his  volumes  was  small, 
and  he  had  no  illusions  whatever  on 
the  subject  of  his  popularity.  He  had 
heard  with  pleasure  that  several  differ- 
ent persons  in  the  United  States  were 
impatient  for  everything  that  might 
come  from  his  pen  ;  but  I  think  he  was 
never  convinced,  as  one  or  two  of  the 
more  zealous  of  these  persons  had  en- 
deavored to  convince  him,  that  he  could 
boast  of  a  "  public "  in  America.  He 
gave  me  the  impression  of  thinking  of 
criticism  as  most  serious  workers  think 
of  it  —  that  it  is  the  amusement,  the 
exercise,  the  subsistence,  of  the  critic 
(and,  so  far  as  this  goes,  of  immense 
use)  ;  but  that,  though  it  may  often  con- 
cern other  readers,  it  does  not  much 
concern  the  artist  himself.  In  compari- 
son with  all  those  things  which  the  pro- 
duction of  a  considered  work  forces  the 
artist  little  by  little  to  say  to  himself, 
the  remarks  of  the  critic  are  vague  and 
of  the  moment ;  and  yet,  owing  to  the 
large  publicity  of  the  proceeding,  they 
have  a  power  to  irritate  or  discourage 
which  is  quite  out  of  proportion  to  their 
use  to  the  person  criticised.  It  was  not, 
moreover  (ihisis  a  very  frank  allusion), 
on  account  of  any  esteem  which  he  ac- 
corded to  my  own  productions  (I  used 
regularly  to  send  them  to  him)  that  I 
found  him  so  agreeable,  for  to  the  best  of 
my  belief  he  was  unable  to  read  them. 
As  regards  one  of  the  first  that  I  had 
offered  him,  he  wrote  me  a  little  note, 
to  tell  me  that  a  distinguished  friend, 
who  was  his  constant  companion,  had 
read  three  or  four  chapters  aloud  to 
him  the  evening  before,  and  that  one  of 
them  was  written  de  main  de  maitre ! 
This  gave  me  great  pleasure,  but  it  was 
my  first  and  last  pleasure  of  the  kind. 


Ivan  Turgenieff. 


I  continued,  as  I  say,  to  send  him  iny 
stories,  because  they  were  the  only  thing 
I  had  to  give  ;  but  he  never  alluded  to 
the  rest  of  the  work  in  question,  which 
he  evidently  did  not  finish,  and  never 
gave  any  sign  of  having  read  its  succes- 
sors. Presently  I  quite  ceased  to  expect 
this,  and  saw  why  it  was  (it  interested 
me  much)  that  my  writings  could  not 
appeal  to  him.  He  cared,  more  than 
anything  else,  for  the  air  of  reality,  and 
my  reality  was  a  good  deal  too  thin.  I 
do  not  think  my  stories  struck  him  as 
quite  meat  for  men.  The  manner  was 
more  apparent  than  the  matter  ;  they 
were  too  tarabiscote,  as  I  once  heard 
him  say  of  the  style  of  a  book —  had  011 
the  surface  too  many  little  flowers  and 
knots  of  ribbon.  He  had  read  a  great 
deal  of  English,  and  knew  the  language 
remarkably  well  —  too  well,  I  used  often 
to  think,  for  he  liked  to  speak  it  with 
those  to  whom  it  was  native,  and,  suc- 
cessful as  the  effort  always  was,  it  de- 
prived him  of  the  facility  and  raciness 
with  which  he  expressed  himself  in 

I  have  said  that  he  had  no  preju- 
dices :  but  perhaps  after  all  he  had  one. 
1  think  he  imagined  it  to  be  impossible 
to  a  person  of  English  speech  to  con- 
verse in  French  with  complete  correct- 
ness. He  knew  Shakespeare  thorough- 
ly, and  at  one  time  had  wandered  far 
and  wide  in  English  literature.  His 
opportunities  for  speaking  English  were 
not  at  all  frequent,  so  that  when  the 
necessity  (or  at  least  the  occasion)  pre- 
sented itself  he  remembered  the  phrases 
he  had  encountered  in  books.  This 
often  gave  a  charming  quaintness  and 
an  unexpected  literary  turn  to  what  he 
said.  "  In  Russia,  in  spring,  if  you  en- 
ter a  beechen  grove  "  — -  those  words 
come  back  to  me  from  the  very  last 
time  I  saw  him.  He  continued  to  read 
English  books,  and  was  not  incapable 
of  attacking  the  usual  Tauchnitz  novel. 
The  English  writer  (of  our  day)  of 
whom  I  remember  to  have  heard  him 

speak  with  most  admiration  was  Dick- 
ens, of  whose  faults  he  was  conscious, 
but  whose  power  of  presenting  to  the 
eye  a  vivid,  definite  figure  he  rated  very 
high.  George  Eliot  he  also  greatly 
admired.  He  had  made  her  acquaint- 
ance during  the  sorrowful  winter  of  the 
Franco-Prussian  war,  which  he  spent  in 
London,  and  I  have  heard  her  express 
a  high  appreciation  of  his  own  genius. 
In  the  young  French  school  he  was 
much  interested;  I  mean,  in  the  new 
votaries  of  realism,  the  grandsons  of 
Balzac.  He  was  a  good  friend  of  most 
of  them,  and  with  Gustave  Flaubert, 
the  most  singular  and  most  original  of 
the  group,  he  was  altogether  intimate. 
He  had  his  reservations  and  discrimina- 
tions, and  he  had,  above  all,  the  great 
back  garden  of  his  Slav  imagination 
and  his  Germanic  culture,  into  which 
the  door  constantly  stood  open,  and  into 
which  the  grandsons  of  Balzac  were  not, 
I  think,  particularly  free  to  accompany 
him.  But  he  had  much  sympathy  with 
their  experiment,  their  general  move- 
ment, and  it  was  on  the  side  of  the  care- 
ful study  of  life  as  the  best  line  of  the 
novelist  that,  as  may  easily  be  sup- 
posed, he  ranged  himself.  For  some  of 
the  manifestations  of  the  opposite  tra- 
dition he  had  a  great  contempt.  This 
was  a  kind  of  emotion  he  rarely  ex- 
pressed, save  in  regard  to  certain  public 
wrongs  and  iniquities ;  bitterness  and 
denunciation  seldom  passed  his  mild  lips. 
But  I  remember  well  the  little  flush  of 
conviction,  the  seriousness,  with  which 
he  once  said,  in  allusion  to  a  novel 
which  had  just  been  running  through 
the  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes,  "  If  I  had 
written  anything  so  bad  as  that,  I  should 
blush  for  it  all  my  life." 

His  was  not,  I  should  say,  predom- 
inantly, or  even  in  a  high  degree,  the 
artistic  nature,  though  it  was  deeply,  if 
I  may  make  the  distinction,  the  poetic. 
But  during  the  last  twelve  years  of  his 
life  he  lived  much  with  artists  and  men 
of  letters,  and  he  was  eminently  capable 


Ivan  Turgenieff. 


of  kindling  in  the  glow  of  discussion. 
He  cared  for  questions  of  form,  though 
not  in  the  degree  in  which  Flaubert  and 
Edmond  de  Goncourt  cared  for  them, 
and  he  had  very  lively  sympathies.  He 
had  a  great  regard  for  Madame  George 
Sand,  the  head  and  front  of  the  old  ro- 
mantic tradition ;  but  this  was  on  gen- 
eral grounds,  quite  independent  of  her 
novels,  which  he  never  read,  and  which 
she  never  expected  him,  or  apparently 
any  one  else,  to  read.  He  thought 
her  character  remarkably  noble  and  sin- 
cere. His  opinion  of  Victor  Hugo  could 
not  have  been  expressed  in  a  few  words, 
but  admiration,  of  course,  was  a  con- 
siderable part  of  it.  I  remember  (on 
Turgenieff's  lips)  a  brilliant  description 
of  Victor  Hugo's  transcendent  state  of 
mind  with  regard  to  himself  (Victor 
Hugo),  and  as  a  corollary  with  regard  to 
others.  If  it  was  deliberate  and  dis- 
criminating, it  was  also  pictorial  and 
humorous.  He  had,  as  I  have  said,  a 
great  affection  for  Gustave  Flaubert, 
who  returned  it ;  and  he  was  much  in- 
terested in  Flaubert's  extraordinary  at- 
tempts at  refinement  of  form  and  irony 
of  matter,  knowing  perfectly  well  when 
they  failed.  During  those  months  which 
it  was  Flaubert's  habit  to  spend  in  Par- 
is, Turgenieff  went  almost  regularly  to 
see  him  on  Sunday  afternoons,  and  was 
so  good  as  to  introduce  me  to  the  au- 
thor of  Madame  Bovary,  in  whom  I 
saw  many  reasons  for  Turgenieff's  re- 
gard. It  was  on  these  Sundays,  in. 
Flaubert's  little  salon,  which,  at  the 
top  of  a  house  at  the  head  of  the  Fau- 
bourg Saint-Honore,  looked  rather  bare 
and  provisional,  that,  in  the  company  of 
the  other  familiars  of  the  spot,  more 
than  one  of  whom  l  have  commemorated 
these  occasions,  Turgenieff's  beautiful 
faculty  of  talk  showed  at  its  best.  He 
was  easy,  natural,  abundant,  more  than 
I  can  describe,  and  everything  that  he 
said  was  touched  with  the  exquisite 

1  Maxime  Du  Camp,  Alphonse  Daudet,  Emile 

quality  of  his  imagination.  What  was 
discussed  in  that  little  smoke-clouded 
room  was  chiefly  questions  of  taste, 
questions  of  art  and  form  ;  and  the 
speakers,  for  the  most  part,  were  in 
aesthetic  matters  radicals  of  the  deep- 
est dye.  It  would  have  been  late  in  the 
day  to  propose  among  them  any  discus- 
sion of  the  relation  of  art  to  morality, 
any  question  as  to  the  degree  in  which 
a  novel  might  or  might  not  concern  it- 
self with  the  teaching  of  a  lesson.  They 
had  settled  these  preliminaries  long  ago, 
and  it  would  have  been  primitive  and 
incongruous  to  recur  to  them.  The  con- 
viction that  held  them  together  was  the 
conviction  that  art  and  morality  are  two 
perfectly  different  things,  and  that  the 
former  has  no  more  to  do  with  the  lat- 
ter than  it  has  with  astronomy  or  em- 
bryology. The  only  duty  of  a  novel 
was  to  be  well  written ;  that  merit  in- 
cluded every  other  of  which  it  was  ca- 
pable. This  state  of  mind  was  never 
more  apparent  than  one  afternoon  when 
ces  messieurs  delivered  themselves  on 
the  subject  of  an  incident  which  had 
just  befallen  one  of  them.  L'Assom- 
moir  of  Emile  Zola  had  been  discontin- 
ued in  the  journal  through  which  it  was 
running  as  a  serial,  in  consequence  of 
repeated  protests  from  the  subscribers. 
The  subscriber,  as  a  type  of  human  imbe- 
cility, received  a  wonderful  dressing,  and 
the  Philistine  in  general  was  roughly 
handled.  There  were  gulfs  of  differ- 
ence between  Turgenieff  and  Zola,  but 
Turgenieff,  who,  as  I  say,  understood 
everything,  understood  Zola  too,  and 
rendered  perfect  justice  to  the  extraordi- 
nary solidity  of  much  of  his  work.  His 
attitude,  at  such  times,  was  admirable, 
and  I  could  imagine  nothing  more  gen- 
ial or  more  fitted  to  give  an  idea  of 
light,  easy  human  intelligence.  No  one 
could  desire  more  than  he  that  art 
should  be  art ;  always,  ever,  incorrup- 
tibly,  art.  To  him  this  proposition 
would  have  seemed  as  little  in  need  of 
proof,  or  susceptible  of  refutation,  as  the 


Ivan  Turg£nieff. 


axiom  that  law  should  always  be  law, 
or  medicine  always  medicine.  As  much 
as  any  one  he  was  prepared  to  take 
note  of  the  fact  that  the  demand  for  ab- 
dications and  concessions  never  comes 
from  artists  themselves,  but  always  from 
purchasers,  editors,  subscribers.  I  am 
pretty  sure  that  his  word  about  all  this 
would  have  been  that  he  could  not  quite 
see  what  was  meant  by  the  talk  about 
novels  being  moral  or  the  reverse ;  that 
a  novel  could  no  more  propose  to  itself 
to  be  moral  than  a  painting  or  a  sym- 
phony, and  that  it  was  arbitrary  to  lay 
down  a  distinction  between  such  forms 
of  art.  I  suspect  that  he  would  have 
said,  in  short,  that  distinctions  were  de- 
manded in  the  interest  of  the  moral- 
ists, and  that  the  demand  was  indelicate, 
owing  to  their  want  of  jurisdiction.  It 
was  not  for  art  to  be  moral,  any  more 
than  for  chemistry  ;  it  was  for  morality, 
since  it  cared  so  much  about  the  matter, 
to  be  artful.  Yet  at  the  same  time  that 
I  make  this  suggestion  as  to  Turgenieff's 
state  of  mind,  I  remember  how  little  he 
struck  me  as  bound  by  mere  neatness 
of  formula,  how  little  there  was  in  him 
of  the  partisan  or  the  pleader.  What 
he  thought  of  the  relation  of  art  to  life, 
his  stories,  after  all,  show  better  than 
anything  else.  The  immense  variety  of 
life  was  ever  present  to  his  mind,  and 
he  would  never  have  argued  the  ques- 
tion I  have  just  hinted  at,  in  the  inter- 
est of  particular  liberties  —  the  liberties 
that  were  apparently  the  dearest  to  his 
French  confreres.  It  was  this  air  that 
he  carried  about  with  him  of  feeling  all 
the  variety  of  life,  of  knowing  strange 
and  far-off  things,  of  having  an  hori- 
zon in  which  the  Parisian  horizon  — 
so  familiar,  so  wanting  in  mystery,  so 
perpetually  exploite  —  easily  lost  itself, 
that  distinguished  him  from  these  com- 
panions. He  was  not  all  there,  as  the 
phrase  is  ;  he  had  something  behind,  in 
reserve.  It  was  Russia,  of  course,  in  a 
large  measure;  and,  especially  before 
the  spectacle  of  what  is  going  on  there 

to-day,  that  was  a  large  quantity.  But 
so  far  as  he  was  on  the  spot,  he  was  an 
element  of  pure  sociability.  He  was 
with  everything  that  was  said,  and  the 
simplicity,  naturalness,  bonhomie,  of  his 
talk  made  it  as  charming  as  it  was  just. 
His  contribution  to  every  discussion  al- 
ways touched  the  essential  part  of  it. 

I  did  not  intend  to  go  into  these  de- 
tails immediately,  for  I  had  only  begun 
to  say  what  an  impression  of  magnifi- 
cent manhood  he  made  upon  me  when 
I  first  knew  him.  That  impression,  in- 
deed, always  remained  with  me,  even 
after  it  had  been  brought  home  to  me 
how  much  there  was  in  him  of  the  qual- 
ity of  genius.  He  was  a  beautiful  in- 
tellect, of  course,  but  above  all  he  was  a 
delightful,  mild,  masculine  figure.  The 
combination  of  his  deep,  soft,  lovable 
spirit,  in  which  one  felt  all  the  tender 
parts  of  genius,  with  his  immense,  fair 
Russian  physique  was  one  of  the  most 
attractive  things  I  have  known.  He  had 
a  frame  which  would  have  made  it  per- 
fectly lawful,  and  even  becoming,  for 
him  to  be  brutal ;  but  there  was  not  a 
grain  of  brutality  in  his  composition. 
He  had  always  been  a  passionate  sports- 
man ;  to  wander  in  the  woods  or  the 
steppes,  with  his  dog  and  gun,  was  the 
pleasure  of  his  heart.  Late  in  life  he 
continued  to  shoot,  and  he  had  a  friend 
in  Cambridgeshire  for  the  sake  of  whose 
partridges,  which  were  famous,  he  used 
sometimes  to  cross  the  Channel.  It 
would  have  been  impossible  to  imagine 
a  better  representation  of  a  Nimrod  of 
the  North.  He  was  exceedingly  tall, 
and  broad  and  robust  in  proportion. 
His  head  was  one  of  the  finest,  and 
though  the  line  of  his  features  was  ir- 
regular there  was  a  great  deal  of  beauty 
in  his  face.  It  was  eminently  of  the- 
Russian  type,  —  almost  everything  in  it 
was  wide.  His  expression  had  a  sin- 
gular sweetness,  with  a  touch  of  Slav 
languor,  and  his  eye,  the  kindest  of 
eyes,  was  deep  and  melancholy.  His 
hair,  abundant  and  straight,  was  as  white 


Ivan  Turgenieff'. 


as  silver  ;  and  his  beard,  which  he  wore 
trimmed  rather  short,  was  of  the  color 
of  his  hair.  In  all  his  tall  person,  which 
was  very  striking  wherever  it  appeared, 
there  was  an  air  of  neglected  strength, 
as  if  it  had  been  a  part  of  his  modesty 
never  to  remind  himself  that  he  was 
strong.  He  used  sometimes  to  blush 
like  a  boy  of  sixteen.  He  had  very  few 
forms  and  ceremonies,  and  almost  as  lit- 
tle manner  as  was  possible  to  a  man  of 
his  natural  prestance.  His  noble  ap- 
pearance was  in  itself  a  manner  ;  but 
whatever  he  did  he  did  very  simply,  and 
he  had  not  the  slightest  pretension  of 
not  being  subject  to  rectification.  I 
never  saw  any  one  receive  it  with  less 
irritation.  Friendly,  candid,  unaffected- 
ly benignant,  the  impression  that  he 
produced  most  strongly  and  most  gener- 
ally was,  I  think,  simply  that  of  good- 

"When  I  made  his  acquaintance  he 
had  been  living,  since  his  removal  from 
Baden-Baden,  which  took  place  in  con- 
sequence of  the  Franco-Prussian  war, 
in  a  large  detached  house  on  the  hill  of 
Montmartre,  with  his  friends  of  many 
years.  Madame  Pauline  Pierdot  and  her 
husband,  as  his  fellow-tenants.  He  oc- 
cupied the  upper  floor,  and  I  like  to  re- 
call, for  the  sake  of  certain  delightful 
talks,  the  aspect  of  his  little  green  sit- 
ting-room, which  has,  in  memory,  the 
consecration  of  irrecoverable  hours.  It 
was  almost  entirely  green,  and  the  walls 
were  not  covered  with  paper,  but  draped 
in  stuff.  The  portieres  were  green,  and 
there  was  one  of  those  immense  divans, 
so  indispensable  to  Russians,  which  had 
apparently  been  fashioned  for  the  great 
person  of  the  master,  so  that  smaller 
folk  had  to  lie  upon  it  rather  than  sit. 
'  I  remember  the  white  light  of  the  Paris 
street,  which  came  in  through  windows 
more  or  less  blinded  in  their  lower  part, 
like  those  of  a  studio.  It  rested,  during 
the  first  years  that  I  went  to  see  Turge- 
nieff, upon  several  choice  pictures  of  the 
modern  French  school,  especially  upon 

a  very  fine  specimen  of  Theodore  Rous- 
seau, which  he  valued  exceedingly.  He 
had  a  great  love  of  painting,  and  was  an 
excellent  critic  of  a  picture.  The  last 
time  I  saw  him  —  it  was  at  his  house  in 
the  country — he  showed  me  half  a  dozen 
large  copies  of  Italian  works,  made  by  a 
young  Russian,  in  whom  he  was  inter- 
ested, which  he  had,  with  characteristic 
Lindness,  taken  into  his  own  apartments, 
in  order  that  he  might  bring  them  to  the 
knowledge  of  his  friends.  He  thought 
them,  as  copies,  remarkable;  and  they 
were  so,  indeed,  especially  when  one  per- 
ceived that  the  original  work  of  the  ar- 
tist had  little  value.  Turgeniefi  warmed 
to  the  work  of  praising  them,  as  he  was 
very  apt  to  do ;  like  all  men  of  imagina- 
tion, he  had  frequent  and  zealous  admi- 
rations. As  a  matter  of  course,  there 
was  almost  always  some  young  Russian 
in  whom  he  was  interested,  and  refugees 
and  pilgrims  of  both  sexes  were  his  nat- 
ural clients.  I  have  heard  it  said,  by 
persons  who  had  known  him  long  and 
well,  that  these  enthusiasms  sometimes 
led  him  into  error ;  that  in  the  French 
phrase  he  was  apt  to  se  monter  la  tete  on 
behalf  of  his  proteges.  He  was  prone 
to  believe  that  he  had  discovered  the 
coming  Russian  genius  ;  he  talked  about 
his  discovery  for  a  month,  and  then, 
suddenly,  one  heard  no  more  of  it.  I 
remember  his  once  telling  me  of  a 
young  woman  who  had  come  to  see  him 
on  her  return  from  America,  where  she 
had  been  studying  obstetrics  at  some 
medical  college,  and  who,  without  means 
and  without  friends,  was  in  want  of 
help  and  of  work.  He  accidentally 
learned  that  she  had  written  something, 
and  asked  her  to  let  him  see  it.  She 
sent  it  to  him,  and  it  proved  to  be  a  tale 
in  which  certain  phases  of  rural  life 
were  described  with  striking  truthful- 
ness. He  perceived  in  the  young  lady  a 
great  natural  talent ;  he  sent  her  story 
off  to  Russia  to  be  printed,  with  the  con- 
viction that  it  would  make  a  great  im- 
pression, and  he  expressed  the  hope  of 


Ivan  Turgenieff. 


being  able  to  introduce  her  to  French 
readers.     When  I  mentioned  this  to  an 
old  friend  of  Turgenieff,  he  smiled  and 
said   that   we   should   not  hear  of   her 
again;   that  Ivan  Sergeievitch  had  al- 
ready discovered  a  great  many  surprising 
talents,  who,  as  a  general  thing  had  not 
borne  the  test.     There  was  apparently 
some  truth  in  this,  and  Turgenieff 's  lia- 
bility to  be  deceived  was  too  generous 
a  weakness  for  me  to  hesitate  to  allude 
to  it,  even  after  I  have  insisted  on  the 
usual   certainty  of   his  taste.     He  was 
deeply  interested  in  his  young  Russians ; 
they  were  what  interested  him  most  in 
the  world.     They  were  almost  always 
unhappy,   in    want,    and    in    rebellion 
against   an   order   of   things  which  he 
himself  detested.    The  study  of  the  Rus- 
sian character  absorbed  and  fascinated 
him,  as  all  readers  of  his  stories  know. 
Rich,  unformed,  undeveloped,  with  all 
sorts  of  adumbrations,  of  qualities  in  a 
state  of  fusion,  it  stretched  itself  out  as 
a  mysterious  expanse,  in  which  it  was 
impossible  as  yet  to  perceive  the  rela- 
tion between  gifts  and  weaknesses.     Of 
its  weaknesses  he  was  keenly  conscious, 
and  I  once  heard  him  express  himself 
with  an  energy  that  did  him  honor,  and 
a  frankness  that  even  surprised  me  (con- 
sidering that  it  was  of  his  countrymen 
that  he  spoke),  in  regard  to  a  weakness 
which  he  deemed  the  greatest  of  all  — 
a  weakness  for  which  a  man  whose  love 
of  the  truth  was  his   strongest  feeling 
would  have  least  toleration.    His  young 
compatriots,   seeking    their    fortune   in 
.  foreign   lands,  touched  his  imagination 
and  his  pity,  and  it  is  easy  to  conceive 
that  under  the  circumstances  the  impres- 
sion   they  often   made  upon   him  may 
have  had  great  intensity.     The  Parisian 
background,  with  its  brilliant  sameness, 
its  absence  of  surprises  (for  those  who 
have  known  it  long),  threw  them  into 
relief,  and  made  him  see  them  as  he  saw 
the  figures  in  his  tales,  in  relations,  in 
situations,   which    brought    them    out. 
There  passed  before  him,  in  the  course 
VOL.  LIII. — NO.  315.  4 

of  time,  many  wonderful  Russian  types. 
Pie  told  me  once  of  his  having  been  vis- 
ited by  a  religious  sect.  The  sect  con- 
sisted of  but  two  persons,  one  of  whom 
was  the  object  of  worship,  and  the  other 
the  worshiper.  The  divinity,  apparent- 
ly, was  traveling  about  Europe  in  com- 
pany with  his  prophet.  They  were  in- 
tensely serious ;  but  it  was  very  handy, 
as  the  term  is,  for  each.  The  god  had 
always  his  altar,  and  the  altar  had  (im-  > 
like  some  altars)  always  its  god. 

On  the  first  floor  of  the  house  in  the 
Rue  de  Douai  was  a  gallery  of  pictures 
(where  later,  I  remember,  one  evening, 
I  saw  him  take  part  with  delightful  com- 
icality in  an  extemporized  charade), 
into  which,  one  of  the  first  times  I  saw 
him,  he  took  me  to  look  at  a  portrait 
just  painted  of  him  by  a  Russian  artist 
working  in  Paris.  This,  perhaps,  was 
one  of  his  premature  admirations,  for 
the  picture,  though  respectable,  could 
not  long  satisfy  any  one  who  carried 
well  in  his  eye  the  admirable  head  and 
the  deep  physiognomy  of  the  original ; 
and  I  remember  that  in  the  Salon  of 
that  year  it  produced  little  effect.  To 
paint  Turgenieff  at  all  properly  would 
have  required  a  painter  of  style.  I  may 
appear  to  gossip  too  much ;  but  it  seems 
to  me  that  if  with  the  more  irresponsi- 
ble method  of  the  pen  one  attempts  a 
sketch  of  so  interesting  a  man,  every 
trifle  is  of  value  as  an  item  of  resem- 
blance. I  will  venture  to  say,  then,  that 
in  his  personal  arrangements  there  was 
an  almost  exaggerated  neatness,  a  love 
of  order  which  resulted  sometimes  in 
angularity.  In  this  little  green  salon 
nothing  was  out  of  place ;  there  were 
none  of  the  odds  and  ends  of  the  usual 
man  of  letters,  which  indeed  Turgenieff 
was  not ;  and  the  case  was  the  same  in 
his  library  at  Bougival,  of  which  I  shall 
presently  speak.  Few  books,  even, 
were  visible ;  it  was  as  if  everything  had 
been  put  away.  The  traces  of  work  had 
been  carefully  removed.  An  air  of  great 
comfort,  an  immeasurable  divan,,  and  sev- 


Ivan  Turg£nieff. 


eral  valuable  pictures  —  that  was  the  ef- 
fect of  the  place.  I  know  not  exactly 
at  what  hours  Turgenieff  did  his  work ; 
I  think  he  had  no  regular  times  and 
seasons,  being  in  this  respect  as  differ- 
ent as  possible  from  Anthony  Trollope, 
whose  autobiography,  with  its  extraor- 
dinary record  of  fixed  habits,  I  have 
just  been  reading.  It  is  my  impression 
that  in  Paris  Turgenieff  wrote  little ;  his 
times  of  production  being  rather  those 
weeks  of  the  summer  that  he  spent  at 
Bougival,  and  the  period  of  that  visit 
to  Russia  which  he  supposed  himself  to 
make  every  year.  I  say  "  supposed 
himself,"  because  it  was  impossible  to 
see  much  of  him  without  discovering 
that  he  was  a  man  of  delays.  As  on 
the  part  of  some  other  Russians  whom 
I  have  known,  there  was  something  al- 
most Asiatic  in  his  faculty  of  procras- 
tination. But  even  if  one  suffered  from 
it  a  little,  one  thought  of  it  with  kind- 
ness, as  a  part  of  his  general  mildness 
and  want  of  rigidity.  He  went  to  Rus- 
sia, at  any  rate,  at  intervals  not  infre- 
quent, and  he  spoke  of  these  visits  as 
his  best  time  for  production.  He  had 
an  estate  far  in  the  interior,  and  here, 
amid  the  stillness  of  the  country  and 
the  scenes  and  figures  which  give  such 
a  charm  to  the  Memoirs  of  a  Sports- 
man, he  drove  his  pen  without  inter- 

It  is  not  out  of  place  to  allude  to  the 
fact  that  he  possessed  considerable  for- 
•tune  ;  for  such  an  accident  in  the  life  of 
a  man  of  letters  has  the  highest  impor- 
tance. It  had  been  of  great  value  to 
Turgenieff,  and  I  think  that  much  of  the 
:fine  quality  of  his  work  is  owing  to  it. 
'He  could  write  according  to  his  taste 
•and  his  mood  ;  he  was  never  pressed  nor 
-cheeked  (putting  the  Russian  censorship 
^side)  by  considerations  foreign  to  his 
•plan,  and  never  was  in  danger  of  becom- 
ing a  hack.  Indeed,  taking  into  consid- 
eration the  absence  of  a  pecuniary  spur, 
and  that  complicated  indolence  from 
•which  be  was  not  exempt,  his  industry 

is  surprising,  for  his  tales  are  very  nu- 
merous.    In  Paris,  at  all  events,  he  was 
always  open  to  proposals  for  the  mid- 
day breakfast.      He  liked  to  breakfast 
au  cabaret,  and  freely  consented  to  an  ap- 
pointment.   It  is  not  unkind  to  add  that, 
at  first,  he  never  kept  it.     I  may  men- 
tion without   reserve  this  idiosyncrasy 
of  Turgenieff's,  because  in  the  first  place 
it  was  so  inveterate  as  to  be  very  amus- 
ing —  it  amused   not   only  his  friends, 
but  himself ;   and  in  the  second,  he  was 
as  sure  to  come  in  the  end  as  he  was 
sure  not  to  come  in  the  beginning.  After 
the  appointment  had  been  made,  or  the 
invitation  accepted,  when  the  occasion 
was  at  hand,  there  arrived  a  note  or  a 
telegram,  in  which  Ivan  Serge'ievitch  ex- 
cused himself,  and  begged  that  the  meet- 
ing might  be  deferred  to  another  date, 
which  he  usually  himself  proposed.   For 
this  second  date,  still  another  was  some- 
times substituted  ;  but  if  I  remember  no 
appointment  that  he  exactly  kept,  I  re- 
member none  that  he  completely  missed. 
His  friends  waited  for  him  frequently, 
but  they  never  lost  him.     He  was  very 
fond  of  that  wonderful  Parisian  dejeuner 
—  fond  of  it,  I  mean,  as  a  feast  of  rea- 
son.    He  was  extremely  temperate,  and 
often   ate  no  breakfast   at  all  4  but  he 
found  it  a  good  hour  for  talk,  and  little, 
on  general    grounds,  as    one   might  be 
prepared  to  agree  with  him,  if  he  was 
at  the  table  one  was  speedily  convinced. 
I  call  it  wonderful,  the  dejeuner  of  Paris, 
on  account  of  the  assurance  with  which 
it  plants  itself  in  the  very  middle  of  the 
morning.     It  divides    the  day  between 
rising  and  dinner  so  unequally,  and  op- 
poses such  barriers  of  repletion  to  any 
view  of  ulterior  labors,  that  the  unac- 
climated  stranger  wonders  when  the  fer- 
tile French  people  do  their  work.     Not 
the  least  wonderful  part  of  it  is  that  the 
stranger   himself  likes   it,  at   last,   and 
manages  to  piece  together  his  day  with 
the  shattered  fragments  that  survive.  It 
was  not,  at  any  rate,  when  one  had  the 
good   fortune   to    breakfast  at   twelve 


Ivan  Turgenieff. 


o'clock  with  Turgenieff  that  one  was 
struck  with  its  being  an  inconvenient 
hour.  Any  hour  was  convenient  for 
meeting  a  human  being  that  conformed 
so  completely  to  one's  idea  of  the  best 
that  human  nature  is  capable  of.  There 
are  places  in  Paris  which  I  can  think  of 
only  in  relation  to  some  occasion  on 
which  he  was  present,  and  when  I  pass 
them  the  particular  things  I  heard  him 
say  there  come  back  to  me.  There  is  a 
cafe  in  the  Avenue  de  1'Opera  —  a  new, 
sumptuous  establishment,  with  very  deep 
settees  —  on  the  right  as  you  leave  the 
Boulevard,  where  I  once  had  a  talk  with 
him,  over  an  order  singularly  "  moder- 
ate," which  was  prolonged  far  into  the 
afternoon,  and  in  the  course  of  which 
he  was  extraordinarily  suggestive  and 
interesting,  so  that  my  memory  now  re- 
verts to  all  the  circumstances  with  a  ten- 
derness that  I  cannot  express.  It  evokes 
the  gniy  damp  of  a  Parisian  December, 
whicli  made  the  dark  interior  of  the  cafe 
look  more  and  more  rich  and  hospitable, 
while  the  light  faded,  the  lamps  were 
lit,  the  habitues  came  in  to  drink  ab- 
sinthe and  play  their  afternoon  game  of 
dominoes,  and  we  still  lingered  over  our 
"  breakfast."  Turgenieff  talked  almost 
exclusively  about  Russia,  the  Nihilists, 
the  remarkable  figures  that  came  to  light 
among  them,  the  curious  visits  he  re- 
ceived, the  dark  prospects  of  his  native 
land.  When  he  was  in  the  vein,  no  man 
could  speak  more  to  the  imagination 
of  his  auditor.  For  myself,  at  least, 
at  such  times,  there  was  something  ex- 
traordinarily vivifying  and  stimulating 
in  his  talk,  and  I  always  left  him  in  a 
state  of  "  intimate  "  excitement,  with  a 
feeling  that  all  sorts  of  valuable  things 
luul  been  suggested  to  me  ;  the  condition 
in  which  a  man  swings  his  cane  as  he 
walks,  leaps  lightly  over  gutters,  and 
then  stops,  for  no  reason  at  all,  to  look 
with  an  air  of  brightness  into  a  shop- 
window,  where  he  sees  nothing.  .  1  re- 
member another  symposium  at  a  restau- 
rant on  one  of  the  corners  of  the  littl? 

place  in  front  of  the  Opera  Comique, 
where  we  were  four,  including  Ivan  Ser- 
ge'ievitch,  and  the  two  other  guests  were 
also  Russian,  one  of  them  uniting  to  the 
charm  of  this  nationality  the  merit  of 
a  sex  that  makes  the  combination  irre- 
sistible. The  establishment  had  been  a 
discovery  of  Turgenieff's —  a  discovery, 
at  least,  as  far  .as  our  particular  needs 
were  concerned  —  and  I  remember  that 
we  hardly  congratulated  him  on  it.  The 
dinner,  in  a  low  entresol,  was  not  what 
it  had  been  intended  to  be,  but  the  talk 
was  better  even  than  our  expectations. 
It  was  not  about  Nihilism,  but  about 
some  more  agreeable  features  of  life, 
and  I  have  no  recollection  of  Turgenieff 
in  a  mood  more  spontaneous  and  charm- 
ing. One  of  our  friends  had,  when  he 
spoke  French,  a  peculiar  way  of  sound- 
ing the  word  adorable,  which  was  fre- 
quently on  his  lips,  and  I  remember  well 
his  expressive  prolongation  of  the  a 
when,  in  speaking  of  the  occasion  after- 
wards, he  applied  this  term  to  Ivan 
Serge'ievitch.  I  scarcely  know,  however, 
why  I  should  drop  into  the  detail  of 
such  reminiscences,  and  my  excuse  is 
but  the  desire  that  we  all  have,  when  a 
human  relationship  is  closed,  to  save  a 
little  of  it  from  the  past  —  to  make  a 
mark  which  may  stand  for  some  of  the 
moments  of  it. 

Nothing  that  Turgenieff  had  to  say 
could  be  more  interesting  than  his  talk 
about  his  own  work,  his  manner  of  writ- 
ing. What  I  have  heard  him  tell  of  these 
things  was  worthy  of  the  beautiful  re- 
sults he  produced  ;  of  the  deep  purpose, 
pervading  them  all,  to  show  us  life  it- 
self. The  germ  of  a  story,  with  him, 
was  never  an  affair  of  plot  —  that  was 
the  last  thing  he  thought  of ;  it  was  the 
representation  of  certain  persons.  The 
first  form  in  which  a  tale  appeared  to 
him  was  as  the  figure  of  one  individual 
or  a  combination  of  individuals,  whom 
he  wished  to  see  in  action,  being  sure 
that  such  people  must  do  something  very 
special  and  interesting.  They  stood  be- 


Ivan  TurgSnieff. 


fore  him  definite,  vivid,  and  he  wished 
to  know,  and  to  show,  as  much  as  pos- 
sible of  their  nature.  The  first  thing 
was  to  make  clear  to  himself  what  he 
did  know,  to  begin  with  ;  and  to  this  end, 
he  wrote  out  a  sort  of  biography  of  each 
of  his  characters  and  everything  that 
they  had  done  and  that  had  happened  to 
them,  up  to  the  opening  of  the  story. 
He  had  their  dossier,  as  the  French  say, 
and  as  the  police  has  of  that  of  every 
conspicuous  criminal.  With  this  mate- 
rial in  his  hand  he  was  able  to  proceed ; 
the  story  all  lay  in  the  question,  What 
shall  I  make  them  do  ?  He  always  made 
them  do  things  that  showed  them  com- 
pletely ;  but,  as  he  said,  the  defect  of 
his  manner  and  the  reproach  that  was 
made  him  was  his  want  of  "  architec- 
ture "  —  in  other  words,  of  composition. 
The  great  thing,  of  course,  is  to  have 
architecture  as  well  as  precious  material, 
as  Walter  Scott  had  them,  as  Balzac 
had  them.  If  one  reads  Turgenieff's 
stories  with  the  knowledge  that  they 
were  composed  —  or  rather  that  they 
came  into  being  —  in  this  way,  one  can 
trace  the  process  in  every  line.  Story, 
in  the  conventional  sense  of  the  word,  — 
a  fable  constructed,  like  Wordsworth's 
phantom,  "  to  startle  and  waylay,"  — 
there  is  as  little  as  possible.  The  thing 
consists  of  the  motions  of  a  group  of 
selected  creatures,  which  are  not  the  re- 
sult of  a  preconceived  action,  but  a  con- 
sequence of  the  qualities  of  the  actors. 
Works  of  art  are  produced  from  every 
possible  point  of  view,  and  stories,  and 
very  good  ones,  will  continue  to  be  writ- 
ten in  order  to  illustrate  a  plot.  Such 
stories  will  always,  probably,  find  most 
favor  with  many  readers,  because  they 
remind  them  enough,  without  reminding 
them  too  much,  of  life.  On  this  opposi- 
tion many  young  talents,  in  France,  are 
ready  to  rend  each  other,  for  there  is  a 
numerous  school  on  either  side.  We 
have  not  yet,  in  England  and  America, 
arrived  at  the  point  of  treating  such 
questions  with  passion,  for  we  have  not 

yet  arrived  at  the  point  of  feeling  them 
intensely,  or  indeed,  for  that  matter,  of 
understanding  them  very  well.  It  is  not 
open  to  us,  as  yet,  to  discuss  whether  a 
novel  had  better  be  an  excision  from  life, 
or  a  structure  built  up  of  picture-cards, 
for  we  have  not  made  up  our  mind  as 
to  whether  life  in  general  may  be  de- 
scribed. Among  us,  therefore,  even  a 
certain  ridicule  attaches  to  the  consid- 
eration of  such  alternatives.  But  indi- 
viduals may  feel  their  way,  and  perhaps 
even  pass  unchallenged  if  they  remark 
that  for  them  the  manner  in  which 
Turgenieff  worked  will  always  seem  the 
most  fruitful.  It  has  the  immense  rec- 
ommendation that  in  relation  to  any  hu- 
man occurrence  it  begins,  as  it  were, 
further  back.  It  lies  in  its  power  to  tell 
us  the  most  about  men  and  women.  Of 
course  it  will  but  slenderly  satisfy  those 
numerous  readers  among  whom  the  an- 
swer to  this  would  be,  "  Hang  it,  we 
don't  care  a  straw  about  men  and  wo- 
men :  we  want  a  good  story  !  " 

And  yet,  after  all,  Elena  is  a  good 
story,  and  A  Nest  of  Noblemen  and  Vir- 
gin Soil  are  good  stories.  Reading  over 
lately  several  of  Turgenieff's  novels  and 
tales,  I  was  struck  afresh  with  their 
combination  of  beauty  and  reality.  One 
must  never  forget,  in  speaking  of  him, 
that  he  was  both  an  observer  and  a 
poet.  The  poetic  element  was  constant, 
and  it  had  great  strangeness  and  power. 
It  inspired  most  of  the  short  things  that 
he  wrote  during  the  last  few  years  of 
his  life,  since  the  publication  of  Virgin 
Soil,  and  which  are  in  the  highest  de- 
gree fanciful  and  exotic.  It  pervades 
the  frequent  little  reveries,  visions,  epi- 
grams, of  the  Senilia.  It  was  no  part 
of  my  intention,  here,  to  criticise  his 
writings,  having  said  my  say  about  them, 
so  far  as  possible,  some  years  ago.  But 
I  may  mention  that  in  re-reading  them 
I  find  in  them  all  that  I  formerly  found 
of  two  other  elements  —  their  depth 
and  their  sadness.  They  give  one  the 
impression  .of  life  itself,  and  not  of  an 


Ivan  TurgSnieff. 


arrangement,  a  rechauffe  of  life.  I 
remember  Turgenieff's  once  saying  in 
regard  to  Homais,  the  little  Norman 
country  apothecary,  with  his  pedantry 
of  "  enlightened  opinions,"  in  Madame 
Bovary,  that  the  great  strength  of  such 
a  portrait  consisted  in  its  being  at  once 
an  individual,  of  the  most  concrete  sort, 
and  a  type.  This  is  the  great  strength 
of  his  own  representations  of  character  ; 
they  are  so  strangely,  fascinatingly  par- 
ticular, and  yet  they  are  so  recognizably 
general.  Such  a  remark  as  that  about 
Homais  makes  me  wonder  why  it  was 
that  Turgenieff  should  have  rated  Dick- 
ens so  high,  the  weakness  of  Dickens 
being  in  regard  to  just  that  point.  If 
Dickens  fails  to  live  long,  it  will  be  be- 
cause his  figures  are  particular  without 
being  general ;  because  they  are  individ- 
uals without  being  types ;  because  we 
do  not  feel  their  continuity  with  the 
rest  of  humanity  —  see  the  matching  of 
the  pattern  with  the  piece  out  of  which 
all  the  creations  of  the  novelist  and  the 
dramatist  are  cut.  I  often  meant,  but 
accidentally  neglected,  to  put  Turgenieff 
on  the  subject  of  Dickens  again,  and  ask 
him  to  explain  his  opinion.  I  suspect 
that  his  opinion  was  in  a  large  measure 
merely  that  Dickens  entertained  him,  as 
well  he  might.  That  curiosity  of  the 
pattern  was  in  itself  fascinating. 

I  have  mentioned  Flaubert,  and  I  will 
return  to  him  simply  to  say  that  there 
was  something  very  touching  to  me  in 
the  nature  of  the  friendship  that  united 
these  two  men.  It  is  much  to  the  honor 
of  Flaubert,  to  my  sense,  that  he  appre- 
ciated Ivan  Turgenieff.  There  was  a 
partial  similarity  between  them.  Both 
were  tall,  massive  men,  though  the  Rus- 
sian reached  to  a  greater  height  than 
the  Norman  ;  both  were  completely  hon- 
est and  sincere,  and  both  had  in  their 
composition  the  element  of  irony  and 
sadness.  Each  had  a  tender  regard  for 
the  other,  and  I  think  that  I  am  nei- 
ther incorrect  nor  indiscreet  in  saying 
•that  on  Turgenieffs  part  this  regard  had 

in  it  a  strain  of  compassion.  There  was 
something  in  Gustave  Flaubert  that  ap- 
pealed to  such  a  feeling.  He  had  failed, 
on  the  whole,  more  than  he  had  succeed- 
ed, and  the  great  machinery  of  erudi- 
tion and  labor  which  he  brought  to  bear 
upon  his  productions  was  not  accompa- 
nied with  proportionate  results.  He  had 
talent  without  having  cleverness,  and 
imagination  without  having  fancy.  His 
effort  was  heroic,  but  except  in  the  case 
of  Madame  Bovary,  a  masterpiece,  he 
imparted  something  to  his  works  which 
sunk  them  rather  than  floated  them. 
He  had  a  passion  for  perfection  of  form 
and  for  a  certain  splendid  suggestive- 
ness  of  style.  He  wished  to  produce  per- 
fect phrases,  perfectly  interrelated,  and 
as  closely  woven  together  as  a  suit  of 
chain-mail.  He  looked  at  life  altogeth- 
er as  an  artist,  and  took  his  work  with 
a  seriousness  that  never  belied  itself. 
To  write  an  admirable  page  —  and  his 
idea  of  what  constituted  an  admirable 
page  was  transcendent  —  seemed  to  him 
something  to  live  for.  He  tried  it  again 
and  again,  and  he  came  very  near 
it ;  more  than  once  he  touched  it,  for 
Madame  Bovary  surely  will  live.  But 
there  was  something  unfruitful  in  his 
genius.  He  was  cold,  and  he  would  have 
given  everything  he  had  to  be  able  to 
glow.  There  is  nothing  in  his  novels 
like  the  passion  of  Elena  for  Inssaroff, 
like  the  purity  of  Lisa,  like  the  anguish 
of  the  parents  of  Bazaroff,  like  the  hid- 
den wound  of  Tatiana  ;  and  yet  Fl.m- 
bert  yearned,  with  all  the  accumulations 
of  his  vocabulary,  to  touch  the  chord 
of  pathos.  There  were  some  parts  of 
his  mind  that  did  not  "  give."  as  the 
French  say,  that  did  not  render  a  sound. 
He  had  had  too  much  of  some  sorts  of 
experience,  and  not  enough  of  others. 
And  yet  this  local  dumbness,  as  I  may 
call  it,  inspired  those  who  knew  him 
with  a  kindness.  If  Flaubert  was  pow- 
erful and  limited,  there  is  something 
impressive  in  a  strong  man  who  has  not 
been  able  completely  to  express  himself. 


Ivan  Turgenieff. 


After  the  first  year  of  ray  acquaint- 
ance with  Turgenieff,  I  saw  him  much 
less  often.  I  was  seldom  in  Paris,  and 
sometimes  when  I  was  there  he  was 
absent.  But  I  neglected  no  opportunity 
of  seeing  him,  and  fortune  frequently 
favored  me.  He  came  two  or  three 
times  to  London,  for  visits  provokingly 
brief.  He  went  to  shoot  in  Cambridge- 
shire, and  he  passed  through  town  in 
arriving  and  departing.  He  liked  the 
English,  but  I  am  not  sure  that  he  liked 
London,  where  he  had  passed  a  lugu- 
brious winter  in  1870-71.  I  remem- 
ber some  of  his  impressions  of  that  pe- 
riod, especially  a  visit  that  he  had  paid 
to  a  "  bishopess "  surrounded  by  her 
daughters,  and  a  description  of  the  cook- 
ery at  the  lodgings  which  he  occupied. 
After  1876  I  frequently  saw  him  as  an 
invalid.  He  was  tormented  by  gout, 
and  sometimes  terribly  besieged ;  but 
his  account  of  what  he  suffered  was  as 
charming  —  I  can  apply  no  other  word 
to  it — as  his  description  of  everything 
else.  He  had  so  the  habit  of  observa- 
tion that  he  perceived  in  excruciating 
sensations  all  sorts  of  curious  images 
and  analogies,  and  analyzed  them  to  an 
extraordinary  fineness.  Several  times 
I  found  him  at  Bougival,  above  the 
Seine,  in  a  very  spacious  and  handsome 
chalet  —  a  little  uncunned,  it  is  true  — 
which  he  had  built  alongside  of  the 
villa  occupied  by  the  family  to  which, 
for  years,  his  life  had  been  devoted. 
The  place  is  delightful ;  the  two  houses 
are  midway  up  a  long  slope,  which  de- 
scends, with  the  softest  inclination,  to 
the  river,  and  behind  them  the  hill  rises 
to  a  wooded  crest.  On  the  left,  in  the 
distance,  high  up,  and  above  an  horizon 
of  woods,  stretches  the  romantic  aque- 
duct of  Marly.  It  is  a  very  pretty  do- 
main. The  last  time  I  saw  him,  in  No- 
vember, 1882,  it  was  at  Bougival.  He 
had  been  very  ill,  with  strange,  intoler- 
able symptoms,  but  he  was  better,  and 
he  had  good  hopes.  They  were  not 
justified  by  the  event.  He  got  worse 

again,  and  the  months  that  followed 
were  cruel.  His  beautiful,  serene  mind 
should  not  have  been  darkened  and  made 
acquainted  with  violence  ;  it  should  have 
been  able  to  the  last  to  take  part,  as  it 
had  always  done,  in  the  decrees  and 
mysteries  of  fate.  At  the  moment  I  saw 
him,  however,  he  was,  as  they  say  in 
London,  in  very  good  form,  and  my  last 
impression  of  him  was  almost  bright. 
He  was  to  drive  into  Paris,  not  being 
able  to  bear  the  railway,  and  he  gave 
me  a  seat  in  the  carriage.  For  an  hour 
and  a  half  he  constantly  talked,  and 
never  better.  When  we  got  into  the  city 
I  alighted  on  the  Boulevard  exterieur, 
as  we  were  to  go  in  different  directions. 
I  bade  him  good-by  at  the  carriage  win- 
dow, and  never  saw  him  again.  There 
was  a  kind  of  fair  going  on,  near  by,  in 
the  chill  November  air,  beneath  the  de- 
nuded little  trees  of  the  Boulevard,  and 
a  Punch  and  Judy  show,  from  which 
nasal  sounds  proceeded.  I  almost  regret 
having  accidentally  to  mix  up  so  much 
of  Paris  with  this,  perhaps  too  compla- 
cent, enumeration  of  occasions,  for  the 
effect  of  it  may  be  to  suggest  that  Ivan 
Serge'ievitch  had  been  gallicized.  But 
this  was  not  the  case ;  no  sojourner  in 
Paris  was  less  French  than  he.  Paris 
touched  him  at  many  points,  but  it  let 
him  alono  at  many  others,  and  he  had 
with  that  great  tradition  of  ventilation 
of  the  Russian  mind  windows  open  into 
distances  which  stretched  far  beyond  the 
banlieue.  I  have  spoken  of  him  from 
the  limited  point  of  view  of  my  own  ac- 
quaintance with  him,  and  unfortunately 
left  myself  little  space  to  allude  to  a 
matter  which  filled  his  existence  a  good 
deal  more  than  the  consideration  of  how 
a  story  should  be  written  —  his  hopes 
and  fears  on  behalf  of  his  native  land. 
He  wrote  fictions  and  dramas,  but  the 
great  drama  of  his  life  was  the  struggle 
for  a  better  state  of  things  in  Russia. 
In  this  drama  he  played  a  distinguished 
part,  and  the  splendid  obsequies  that, 
simple  and  modest  as  he  was,  have  un- 

1884.]  Lepage's  Joan  of  Are.  55 

folded  themselves    over  his  grave,  suf-  procity,  into  the  majestic  position  of  a 

ficiently  attest  the  recognition  of  it  by  national  glory.  And  yet  it  is  in  the  pres- 

his  countrymen.     His   funeral,  restrict-  ence  of  this  obstacle  to  social   contact 

ed  and  officialized,  was  none  the  less  that   those   who   knew  and   loved   him 

a  magnificent  "  manifestation."     I  have  must  address  their  farewell  to  him  now. 

read  the  accounts  of  it,  however,  with  a  After  all,  it  is  difficult  to  see  how  the 

kind  of  chill,  a  feeling  in  which  assent  obstacle  can  be  removed.     He  was  the 

to  the  honors  paid  him  bore  less  part  most  generous,    the    most   tender,   the 

than  it  ought.     All  this  pomp  and  cere-  most  delightful,  of  men  ;  his  large  nature 

mony  seemed  to  lift  him  out  of  the  range  overflowed  with  the  love  of  justice  ;  but 

of  familiar  recollection,  of  valued  reel-  he  was  also  a  rare  genius. 

Henry  James. 


ONCE,  it  may  be,  the  soft  gray  skies  were  dear, 
The  clouds  above  in  crowds,  like  sheep  below, 
The  bending  of  each  kindly  wrinkled  tree  ; 
Or  blossoms  at  the  birth-time  of  the  year, 
Or  lambs  unweaned,  or  water  in  still  flow, 

In  whose  brown  glass  a  girl  her  face  might  see. 

Such  days  are  gone,  and  strange  things  come  instead ; 
For  she  has  looked  on  other  faces  white, 

Pale  bloom  of  fear,  before  war's  whirlwind  blown ; 
Has  stooped,  ah  Heaven !  in  some  low  sheltering  shed 
To  tend  dark  wounds,  the  leaping  arrow's  bite, 

While  the  cold  death  that  hovered  seemed  her  own. 

And  in  her  hurt  heart,  o'er  some  grizzled  head, 
The  mother  that  shall  never  be  has  yearned ; 

And  love's  fine  voice,  she  else  shall  never  hear, 
Came  to  her  as  the  call  of  saints  long  dead  ; 
And  straightway  all  the  passion  in  her  burned, 
One  altar-flame,  that  hourly  waxes  clear. 

Hence  goes  she  ever  in  a  glimmering  dream, 
And  very  oft  will  sudden  stand  at  gaze, 

With  blue,  dim  eyes  that  still  not  seem  to  see: 
For  now  the  well-known  ways  with  visions  teem ; 
Unfelt  is  toil,  and  summer  one  green  daze, 

Till  that  the  king  be  crowned,  and  France  be  free  ! 

Helen   Gray   Cone. 


A  Roman  Singer. 




I  WENT  to  Palestrina  because  all  for- 
eigners go  there,  and  are  to  be  heai'd  of 
from  other  parts  of  the  mountains  in 
that  place.  It  was  a  long  and  tiresome 
journey  ;  the  jolting  stagecoach  shook 
me  very  much.  There-  was  a  stout  wo- 
man inside,  with  a  baby  that  squealed ; 
there  was  a  very  dirty  old  country  cu- 
rate, who  looked  as  though  he  had  not 
shaved  for  a  week,  or  changed  his  col- 
lar for  a  month.  But  he  talked  intelli- 
gently, though  he  talked  too  much,  and 
he  helped  to  pass  the  time  until  I  was 
weary  of  him.  We  jolted  along  over 
the  dusty  roads,  and  were  at  least  thank- 
ful that  it  was  not  yet  hot. 

In  the  evening  we  reached  Palestrina, 
and  stopped  before  the  inn  in  the  mar- 
ket-place, as  tired  and  dusty  as  might 
be.  The  woman  went  one  way,  and 
the  priest  the  other,  and  I  was  left  alone. 
I  soon  found  the  fat  old  host,  and  en- 
gaged a  room  for  the  night.  He  was 
talkative  and  curious,  and  sat  by  my  side 
when  he  had  prepared  my  supper  in  the 
dingy  dining-room  down-stairs.  1  felt 
quite  sure  that  he  would  be  able  to  tell 
me  what  I  wanted,  or  at  least  to  give 
me  a  hint  from  hearsay.  But  he  at 
once  began  to  talk  of  last  year,  and 
how  much  better  his  business  had  been 
then  than  it  was  now,  as  country  land- 
lords invariably  do. 

It  was  to  no  purpose  that  I  questioned 
him  about  the  people  that  had  passed 
during  the  fortnight,  the  month,  the  two 
months,  back  ;  it  was  clear  that  no  one 
of  the  importance  of  my  friends  had 
been  heard  of.  At  last  I  was  tired,  and 
he  lit  a  wax  candle,  which  he  would 
carefully  charge  in  the  bill  afterwards, 
at  double  its  natural  price,  and  he 
showed  me  the  way  to  my  room.  It 
was  a  very  decent  little  room,  with 

white  curtains  and  a  good  bed  and  a 
table,  —  everything  I  could  desire.  A 
storm  had  come  up  since  I  had  been  at 
my  supper,  and  it  seemed  a  comfortable 
thing  to  go  to  bed,  although  I  was  dis- 
appointed at  having  got  no  news. 

But  when  I  had  blown  out  my  candle, 
determining  to  expostulate  with  the 
host  in  the  morning,  if  he  attempted  to 
make  me  pay  for  a  whole  one,  I  lay 
thinking  of  what  I  should  do  ;  and  turn- 
ing on  my  side,  I  observed  that  a  narrow 
crack  of  the  door  admitted  rays  of  light 
into  the  darkness  of  my  chamber.  Now 
I  am  very  sensitive  to  draughts  and  in- 
clined to  take  cold,  and  the  idea  that 
there  was  a  door  open  troubled  me,  so 
that  at  last  I  made  up  my  mind  to  get 
up  and  close  it.  As  I  rose  to  my  feet,  I 
perceived  that  it  was  not  the  door  by 
which  I  had  entered ;  and  so,  before 
shutting  it,  I  called  out,  supposing  there 
might  be  some  one  in  the  next  room. 

"  Excuse  me,"  I  said  loudly,  "  I  will 
shut  this  door."  But  there  was  no  reply. 

Curiosity  is  perhaps  a  vice,  but  it  is 
a  natural  one.  Instead  of  pulling  the 
door  to  its  place,  I  pushed  it  a  little, 
knocking  with  my  knuckles  at  the  same 
time.  But  as  no  one  answered,  I  pushed 
it  further,  and  put  in  my  head.  It  was 
a  disagreeable  thing  I  saw. 

The  room  was  like  mine  in  every  way, 
save  that  the  bed  was  moved  to  the 
middle  of  the  open  space,  and  there 
were  two  candles  on  two  tables.  On 
the  bed  lay  a  dead  man.  I  felt  what  we 
call  a  brivido,  —  a  shiver  like  an  ague. 

It  was  the  body  of  an  old  man,  with 
a  face  like  yellow  wax,  and  a  singularly 
unpleasant  expression  even  in  death. 
His  emaciated  hands  were  crossed  on  Ma 
breast,  and  held  a  small  black  crucifix. 
The  candles  stood,  one  at  the  head  and 
one  at  the  foot,  on  little  tables.  I  en- 
tered the  room  and  looked  long  at  the 


A  Roman  Singer. 

dead  old  man.  I  thought  it  strange  that 
there  should  be  no  one  to  watch  him, 
but  I  am  not  afraid  of  dead  men,  after 
the  first  shudder  is  past.  It  was  a 
ghastly  sight  enough,  however,  and  the 
candles  shed  a  glaring,  yellowish  light 
over  it  all. 

"  Poor  wretch,"  I  said  to  myself,  and 
went  back  to  my  room,  closing  the  door 
carefully  behind  me. 

At  first  I  thought  of  rousing  the  host, 
and  explaining  to  him  my  objections  to 
being  left  almost  in  the  same  room  with 
a  corpse.  But  I  reflected  that  it  would 
be  foolish  to  seem  afraid  of  it,  when  I 
was  really  not  at  all  timid,  and  so  I 
went  to  bed,  and  slept  until  dawn.  But 
when  I  went  down -stairs  I  found  the 
innkeeper,  and  gave  him  a  piece  of  my 

"  What  sort  of  an  inn  do  you  keep  ? 
What  manners  are  these  ?"  I  cried  an- 
grily. "  What  diavolo  put  into  your 
pumpkin  head  to  give  me  a  sepulchre 
for  a  room  ?  " 

He  seemed  much  disturbed  at  what  I 
said,  and  broke  out  into  a  thousand  apol- 
ogies. But  I  was  not  to  be  so  easily 

"  Do  you  think,"  I  demanded,  "  that 
I  will*  ever  come  here  again,  or  advise 
any  of  my  friends  to  come  here  ?  It  is 
insufferable.  I  will  write  to  the  po- 
lice "  —  But  at  this  he  began  to  shed 
tears  and  to  wring  his  hands,  saying  it 
was  not  his  fault. 

"  You  see,  signore,  it  was  my  wife 
who  made  me  arrange  it  so.  Oh  !  these 
women  —  the  devil  has  made  them  all ! 
It  was  her  father  —  the  old  dead  man 
you  saw.  He  died  yesterday  morning, 
—  may  he  rest !  —  and  we  will  bury  him 
to-day.  You  see  every  one  knows  that 
unless  a  dead  man  is  watched  by  some 
one  from  another  town  his  soul  will  not 
rest  in  peace.  My  wife's  father  was  a 
jettatore  ;  he  had  the  evil  eye,  and  peo- 
ple knew  it  for  miles  around,  so  I  could 
not  persuade  any  one  from  the  other  vil- 
lages to  sit  by  him  and  watch  his  body, 

though  I  sent  everywhere  all  day  yes- 
terday. At  last  that  wife  of  mine  — 
maledictions  on  her  folly  !  —  said,  '  It  is 
my  father,  after  all,  and  his  soul  must 
rest,  at  any  price.  If  you  put  a  traveler 
in  the  next  room,  and  leave  the  door 
open,  it  will  be  the  same  thing ;  and  so 
he  will  be  in  peace.'  That  is  the  way 
it  happened,  signore,"  he  continued,  af- 
ter wiping  away  his  tears ;  "  you  see  I 
could  not  help  it  at  all.  But  if  you  will 
overlook  it,  I  will  not  make  any  charges 
for  your  stay.  My  wife  shall  pay  me. 
She  has  poultry  by  the  hundred.  I  will 
pay  myself  with  her  chickens." 

"  Very  good,"  said  I,  well  pleased  at 
having  got  so  cheap  a  lodging.  "  But  I 
am  a  just  man,  and  I  will  pay  for  what 
I  have  eaten  and  drunk,  and  you  can 
take  the  night's  lodging  out  of  your 
wife's  chickens,  as  you  say."  So  we 
were  both  satisfied.1 

The  storm  of  the  night  had  passed 
away,  leaving  everything  wet  and  the 
air  cool  and  fresh.  I  wrapped  my  cloak 
about  me,  and  went  into  the  market- 
place, to  see  if  I  could  pick  up  any 
news.  It  was  already  late,  for  the 
country,  and  there  were  few  people 
about.  Here  and  there,  in  the  streets, 
a  wine-cart  was  halting  on  its  way  to 
Rome,  while  the  rough  carter  went 
through  the  usual  arrangement  of  ex- 
changing some  of  his  employer's  wine 
for  food  for  himself,  filling  up  the  barrel 
with  good  pure  water,  that  never  hurt 
any  one.  I  wandered  about,  though  I 
could  not  expect  to  see  any  face  that  I 
knew ;  it  is  so  many  years  since  I  lived 
at  Serveti,  that  even  were  the  carters 
from  my  old  place,  I  should  have  forgot- 
ten how  they  looked.  Suddenly,  at  the 
corner  of  a  dirty  street,  where  there  was 
a  little  blue  and  white  shrine  to  the  Ma- 
donna, I  stumbled  against  a  burly  fellow 
with  a  gray  beard,  carrying  a  bit  of  salt 
codfish  in  one  hand  and  a  cake  of  corn 
bread  in  the  other,  eating  as  he  went. 

1  This  incident  actually  occurred,  precisely  as 
related. -F.M.C. 


A  Roman  Singer. 


"  Gigi !  "  I  cried  in  delight,  when  I 
recognized  the  old  carrettiere  who  used 
to  bring  me  grapes  and  wine,  and  still 
does  when  the  fancy  takes  him. 

"  Dio  mio  !  Signer  Conte  !  "  he 
cried  with  his  mouth  full,  and  holding 
up  the  bread  and  fish  with  his  two 
hands,  in  astonishment.  When  he  re- 
covered himself,  he  instantly  offered  to 
share  his  meal  with  me,  as  the  poorest 
wretch  in  Italy  will  offer  his  crust  to 
the  greatest  prince,  out  of  politeness. 
"  Vuol  favorire  ?  "  he  said,  smiling. 

I  thanked  him  and  declined,  as  you 
may  imagine.  Then  I  asked  him  how 
he  came  to  be  in  Palestrina  ;  and  he  told 
me  that  he  was  often  there  in  the  winter, 
as  his  sister  had  married  a  vinedresser  of 
the  place,  of  whom  he  bought  wine  oc- 
casionally. Very  well-to-do  people,  he 
explained  eagerly,  proud  of  his  pros- 
perous relations. 

We  clambered  along  through  the 
rough  street  together,  and  I  asked  him 
what  was  the  news  from  Serveti  and 
from  that  part  of  the  country,  well 
knowing  that  if  he  had  heard  of  any 
rich  foreigners  in  that  neighborhood  he 
would  at  once  tell  me  of  it.  But  I  had 
not  much  hope.  He  talked  about  the 
prospects  of  the  vines,  and  such  things, 
for  some  time,  and  I  listened  patiently. 

"  By  the  bye,"  he  said  at  last,  "  there 
is  a  gran  signore  who  is  gone  to  live  in 
Fillettirio,  —  a  crazy  man,  they  say, 
with  a  beautiful  daughter,  but  really 
beautiful,  as  an  angel." 

I  was  so  much  surprised  that  I  made 
a  loud  exclamation. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  asked  Gigi. 

"  It  is  nothing,  Gigi,"  I  answered, 
for  I  was  afraid  lest  he  should  betray 
my  secret,  if  I  let  him  guess  it.  "  It 
is  nothing.  I  struck  my  foot  against 
a  stone.  But  you  were  telling  about  a 
foreigner  who  is  gone  to  live  somewhere. 
Fillettino  ?  Where  is  that  ?  " 

"  Oh,  the  place  of  the  diavolo  !  I  do 
not  wonder  you  do  not  know,  conte, 
for  gentlemen  never  go  there.  It  is  in 

the  Abruzzi,  beyond  Trevi.  Did  you 
ever  hear  of  the  Serra  di  Sant'  Antonio, 
where  so  many  people  have  been 
killed  ?  " 

"  Diana  !  I  should  think  so  !  In  the 
old  days  "  — 

"  Bene,"  said  Gigi,  "  Fillettino  is 
there,  at  the  beginning  of  the  pass." 

"  Tell  me,  Gigi  mio,"  I  said,  "  are 
you  not  very  thirsty  ?  "  The  way  to 
the  heart  of  the  wine  carter  lies  through 
a  pint  measure.  Gigi  was  thirsty,  as  I 
supposed,  and  we  sat  down  in  the  porch 
of  my  inn,  and  the  host  brought  a  stoup 
of  his  best  wine  and  set  it  before  us. 

"  I  would  like  to  hear  about  the  crazy 
foreigner  who  is  gone  to  live  in  the  hills 
among  the  briganti,"  I  said,  when  he 
had  wet  his  throat. 

u  What  I  know  I  will  tell  you.  Sig- 
nor  Conte,"  he  answered,  filling  his 
pipe  with  bits  that  he  broke  off  a  cigar. 
"  But  I  know  very  little.  He  must  be 
a  foreigner,  because  he  goes  to  such  a 
place ;  and  he  is  certainly  crazy,  for  he 
shuts  his  daughter  in  the  old  castle,  and 
watches  her  as  though  she  was  made  of 
wax,  like  the  flowers  you  have  in  Rome 
under  glass." 

"  How  long  have  they  been  there, 
these  queer  folks  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  What  do  I  know  ?  It  may  be  a 
month  or  two.  A  man  told  me,  who 
had  come  that  way  from  Fucino,  and 
that  is  all  I  know." 

"  Do  people  often  travel  that  way, 

"  Not  often,  indeed,"  he  answered, 
with  a  grin.  "  They  are  not  very  civil, 
the  people  of  those  parts."  Gigi  made 
a  gesture,  or  a  series  of  gestures.  He 
put  up  his  hands  as  though  firing  a  gun. 
Then  he  opened  his  right  hand  and 
closed  it,  with  a  kind  of  insinuating 
twirl  of  the  lingers,  which  means  "  to 
steal."  Lastly  he  put  his  hand  over  his 
eyes,  and  looked  through  his  fingers  as 
though  they  were  bars,  which  means 
"  prison."  From  this  I  inferred  that 
the  inhabitants  of  Fillettino  were  ad- 


A  Roman  Singer. 


dieted  to  murder,  robbery,  and  other 
pastimes,  for  which  they  sometimes  got 
into  trouble.  The  place  he  spoke  of 
is  about  thirty  miles,  or  something  more, 
from  Palestrina,  and  I  began  planning 
how  I  should  get  there  as  cheaply  as 
possible.  I  had  never  been  there,  and 
wondered  what  kind  of  a  habitation  the 
count  had  found;  for  I  knew  it  must 
be  the  roughest  sort  of  mountain  town, 
with  some  dilapidated  castle,  or  other, 
overhanging  it.  But  the  count  was  rich, 
and  he  had  doubtless  made  himself  very 
comfortable.  I  sat  in  silence,  while  Gigi 
finished  his  wine,  and  chatted  about  his 
affairs  between  the  whiffs  of  his  pipe. 

"  Gigi,"  I  said  at  last,  "  I  want  to 
buy  a  donkey." 

"  Eh,  your  excellency  can  be  accom- 
modated; and  a  saddle,  too,  if  you 

"  I  think  I  could  ride  without  a  sad- 
dle," I  said,  for  I  thought  it  a  needless 
piece  of  extravagance. 

"  Madonna  mia  !  "  he  cried.  "  The 
Signor  Conte  ride  bareback  on  a  don- 
key !  They  would  laugh  at  you.  But 
my  brother-in-law  can  sell  you  a  beast 
this  very  day,  and  for  a  mere  song." 

"  Let  us  go  and  see  the  beast,"  I  said. 
I  felt  a  little  ashamed  of  having  wished 
to  ride  without  a  saddle.  But  as  I  had 
sold  all  I  had,  I  wanted  to  make  the 
money  last  as  long  as  possible  ;  or  at 
least  I  would  spend  as  little  as  I  could, 
and  take  something  back,  if  I  ever  went 
home  at  all.  We  had  not  far  to  go,  and 
Gigi  opened  a  door  in  the  street,  and 
showed  me  a  stable,  in  which  something 
moved  in  the  darkness.  Presently  he 
led  out  an  animal  and  began  to  descant 
upon  its  merits. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  a  more  beautiful 
donkey  ?  "  asked  Gigi  admiringly.  "  It 
looks  like  a  horse  !  "  It  was  a  little 
ass,  with  sad  eyes,  and  ears  as  long  as 
its  tail.  It  was  also  very  thin,  and  had 
the  hair  rubbed  off  its  back  from  carry- 
ing burdens.  But  it  had  no  sore  places, 
and  did  not  seem  lame. 

"  He  is  full  of  fire,"  said  Gigi,  poking 
the  donkey  in  the  ribs  to  excite  a  show 
of  animation.  "  You  should  see  him 
gallop  up  hill  with  my  brother  on  his 
back,  and  a  good  load  into  the  bargain. 
Brrrr !  Stand  still,  will  you  ! "  he 
cried,  holding  tight  by  the  halter,  though 
the  animal  did  not  seem  anxious  to  run 

"  And  then,"  said  Gigi,  "  he  eats 
nothing,  —  positively  nothing." 

"  He  does  not  look  as  though  he  had 
eaten  much  of  late,"  I  said. 

"  Oh,  my  brother-in-law  is  as  good  to 
him  as  though  he  were  a  Christian.  He 
gives  him  corn  bread  and  fish,  just  like 
his  own  children.  But  this  ass  prefers 

"  A  frugal  ass,"  I  said,  and  we  began 
to  bargain.  I  will  not  tell  you  what  I 
gave  Gigi's  brother-in-law  for  the  beast, 
because  you  would  laugh.  And  I  bought 
an  old  saddle,  too.  It  was  really  neces- 
sary, but  it  was  a  dear  bargain,  though 
it  was  cheaper  than  hiring;  for  I  sold 
the  donkey  and  the  saddle  again,  and 
got  back  something. 

It  is  a  wild  country  enough  that  lies  be- 
hind the  mountains  towards  the  sources 
of  the  Aniene,  —  the  river  that  makes 
the  falls  at  Tivoli.  You  could  not  half 
understand  how  in  these  times,  under  the 
new  government,  and  almost  within  a 
long  day's  ride  from  Rome,  such  things 
could  take  place  as  I  am  about  to  tell 
you  of,  unless  I  explained  to  you  how 
very  primitive  that  country  is  which 
lies  to  the  southeast  of  the  capital,  and 
which  we  generally  call  the  Abruzzi. 
The  district  is  wholly  mountainous,  and 
though  there  are  no  very  great  eleva- 
tions there  are  very  ragged  gorges  and 
steep  precipices,  and  now  and  then  an 
inaccessible  bit  of  forest  far  up  among 
the  rocks,  which  no  man  has  ever  thought 
of  cutting  down.  It  would  be  quite  im- 
possible to  remove  the  timber.  The  peo- 
ple are  mostly  shepherds  in  the  higher 
regions,  where  there  are  no  vines,  and 
when  opportunity  offers  they  will  way- 


A  Roman  Singer. 


lay  the  unwary  traveler  and  rob  him, 
and  even  murder  him,  without  thinking 
very  much  about  it.  In  the  old  days, 
the  boundary  between  the  Papal  States 
and  the  kingdom  of  Naples  ran  through 
these  mountains,  and  the  contrabban- 
dieri  —  the  smugglers  of  all  sorts  of 
wares  —  used  to  cross  from  one  domin- 
ion to  the  other  by  circuitous  paths  and 
steep  ways  of  which  only  a  few  had 
knowledge.  The  better  known  of  these 
passes  were  defended  by  soldiers  and 
police,  but  there  have  been  bloody  fights 
fought,  within  a  few  years,  between  the 
law  and  its  breakers.  Foreigners  never 
penetrate  into  the  recesses  of  these  hills, 
and  even  the  English  guide-books,  which 
are  said  to  contain  an  account  of  every- 
thing that  the  Buon  Dio  ever  made, 
compiled  from  notes  taken  at  the  time 
of  the  creation,  make  no  mention  of 
places  which  surpass  in  beauty  all  the 
rest  of  Italy  put  together. 

No  railroad  or  other  modern  innova- 
tion penetrates  into  those  Arcadian  re- 
gions, where  the  goatherd  plays  upon 
his  pipe  all  the  day  long,  the  picture  of 
peace  and  innocence,  or  prowls  in  the 
passes  with  a  murderous  long  gun,  if 
there  are  foreigners  in  the  air.  The 
women  toil  at  carrying  their  scant  supply 
of  drinking-water  from  great  distances 
during  a  part  of  the  day,  and  in  the 
evening  they  spin  industriously  by  their 
firesides  or  upon  their  doorsteps,  as  the 
season  will  have  it.  It  is  an  old  life, 
the  same  to-day  as  a  thousand  years  ago, 
and  perhaps  as  it  will  be  a  thousand 
years  hence.  The  men  are  great  trav- 
elers, and  go  to  Rome  in  the  winter  to 
sell  their  cheese,  or  to  milk  a  flock  of 
goats  in  the  street  at  daybreak,  selling 
the  foaming  canful  for  a  sou.  But  their 
visits  to  the  city  do  not  civilize  them ; 
the  outing  only  broadens  the  horizon  of 
their  views  in  regard  to  foreigners,  and 
makes  them  more  ambitious  to  secure 
one,  and  see  what  he  is  like,  and  cut  off 
his  ears,  and  get  his  money.  Do  not 
suppose  that  the  shepherd  of  the  Abruzzi 

lies  all  day  on  the  rocks  in  the  sun, 
waiting  for  the  foreign  gentleman  to 
come  within  reach.  He  misht  wait  a 


long  time.  Climbing  has  strengthened 
the  muscles  of  his  legs  into  so  much 
steel,  and  a  party  of  herdsmen  have  been 
known  to  come  down  from  the  Serra  to 
the  plains  around  Velletri,  and  to  return 
to  their  inaccessible  mountains,  after  do- 
ing daring  deeds  of  violence,  in  twenty- 
four  hours  from  the  time  of  starting; 
covering  at  least  from  eighty  to  ninety 
miles  by  the  way.  They  are  extraor- 
dinary fellows,  as  active  as  tigers,  and 
fabulously  strong,  though  they  are  never 
very  big. 

This  country  begins  behind  the  range 
of  Sabine  mountains  seen  from  Rome 
across  the  Campagna,  and  the  wild  char- 
acter of  it  increases  as  you  go  towards 
the  southeast. 

Since  I  have  told  you  this  much,  I 
need  not  weary  you  with  further  de- 
scriptions. I  do  not  like  descriptions, 
and  it  is  only  when  Nino  gives  me  his 
impressions  that  I  write  them,  in  order 
that  you  may  know  how  beautiful  things 
impress  him,  and  the  better  judge  of  his 

I  do  not  think  that  Gigi  really  cheat- 
ed me  so  very  badly  about  the  donkey. 
Of  course  I  do  not  believe  the  story  of 
his  carrying  the  brother-in-law  and  the 
heavy  load  uphill  at  a  gallop ;  but  I  am 
thin  and  not  very  heavy,  and  the  little 
ass  carried  me  well  enough  through  the 
valleys,  and  when  we  came  to  a  steep 
place  I  would  get  off  and  walk,  so  as  not 
to  tire  him  too  much.  If  he  liked  to  crop 
a  thistle  or  a  blade  of  grass,  I  would 
stop  a  moment,  for  I  thought  he  would 
grow  fatter  in  that  way,  and  I  should 
not  lose  so  much  when  I  sold  him  again. 
But  he  never  grew  very  fat. 

Twice  I  slept  by  the  way,  before  I 
reached  the  end  of  my  journey,  —  once 
at  Olevano,  and  once  at  Trevi ;  for  the 
road  from  Olevano  to  Trevi  is  long,  and 
some  parts  are  very  rough,  especially  at 
first.  I  could  tell  you  just  how  every 


A  Roman  Singer. 


stone  on  the  road  looks — Rojate,  the 
narrow  pass  beyond,  and  then  the  long 
valley  with  the  vines ;  then  the  road 
turns  away  and  rises  as  you  go  along 
the  plateau  of  Arcinazzo,  which  is  hol- 
low beneath,  and  you  can  hear  the 
echoes  as  you  tread ;  then  at  the  end 
of  that  the  desperate  old  inn,  called  by 
the  shepherds  the  Madre  dei  Briganti,  — 
the  mother  of  brigands,  —  sinoke-black- 
ened  within  and  without,  standing  alone 
on  the  desolate  heath ;  further  on,  a 
broad  bend  of  the  valley  to  the  left,  and 
you  see  Trevi  rising  before  you,  crowned 
with  an  ancient  castle,  and  overlooking 
the  stream  that  becomes  the  Aniene 
afterwards  ;  from  Trevi  through  a  ris- 
ing valley  that  grows  narrower  at  every 
step,  and  finally  seems  to  end  abruptly, 
as  indeed  it  does,  in  a  dense  forest  far 
up  the  pass.  And  just  below  the  woods 
lies  the  town  of  Fillettino,  where  the 
road  ends ;  for  there  is  a  road  which 
leads  to  Tivoli,  but  does  not  communi- 
cate with  Olevano,  whence  I  had  come. 

Of  course  I  had  made  an  occasional 
inquiry  by  the  way,  when  I  could  do 
so  without  making  people  too  curious. 
When  any  one  asked  me  where  I  was 
going,  I  would  say  I  was  bound  for  Fu- 
ciuo,  to  buy  beans  for  seed  at  the  won- 
derful model  farm  that  Torlonia  has 
made  by  draining  the  old  lake.  And 
then  I  would  ask  about  the  road ;  and 
sometimes  I  was  told  there  was  a 
strange  foreigner  at  Fillettino,  who 
made  everybody  wonder  about  him  by 
his  peculiar  mode  of  life.  Therefore, 
when  I  at  last  saw  the  town,  I  was  quite 
sure  that  the  count  was  there,  and  I  got 
off  my  little  donkey,  and  let  him  drink 
in  the  stream,  while  I  myself  drank  a 
little  higher  up.  The  road  was  dusty, 
and  my  donkey  and  I  were  thirsty. 

I  thought  of  all  I  would  do,  as  1  sat 
on  the  stone  by  the  water,  and  the  beast 
cropped  the  wretched  grass  ;  and  soon 
I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  I  did  not 
know  in  the  least  what  I  should  do.  I 
had  unexpectedly  found  what  I  wanted, 

very  soon,  and  I  was  thankful  enough  to 
have  been  so  lucky.  But  I  had  not  the 
first  conception  of  what  course  I  was  to 
pursue  when  once  I  had  made  sure  of 
the  count.  Besides,  it  was  barely  pos- 
sible that  it  was  not  he,  after  all,  but  an- 
other foreigner,  with  another  daughter. 
The  thought  frightened  me,  but  I  drove 
it  away.  If  it  were  really  old  Lira 
who  had  chosen  this  retreat  in  which  to 
imprison  his  daughter  and  himself,  I 
asked  myself  whether  I  could  do  any- 
thing, save  send  word  to  Nino  as  soon 
as  possible. 

I  felt  like  a  sort  of  Don  Quixote,  sud- 
denly chilled  into  the  prosaic  require- 
ments of  common  sense.  Perhaps  if 
Hedwig  had  been  my  Dulcinea,  instead 
of  Nino's,  the  crazy  fit  would  have  last- 
ed, and  I  would  have  attempted  to  scale 
the  castle  wall  and  carry  off  the  prize 
by  force.  There  is  no  telling  what  a 
sober  old  professor  of  philosophy  may 
not  do,  when  he  is  crazy.  But  mean- 
while I  was  sane.  Graf  von  Lira  had  a 
right  to  live  anywhere  he  pleased  with 
his  daughter,  and  the  fact  that  I  had 
discovered  the  spot  where  he  pleased 
to  live  did  not  constitute  an  introduc- 
tion. Or  finally,  if  I  got  access  to  the 
old  count,  what  had  I  to  say  to  him? 
Ought  I  to  make  a  formal  request  for 
Nino  ?  I  looked  at  my  old  clothes,  and 
almost  smiled. 

But  the  weather  was  cold,  though  the 
roads  were  dusty ;  so  I  mounted  my  ass 
and  jogged  along,  meditating  deeply. 


Fillettino  is  a  trifle  cleaner  than 
most  towns  of  the  same  kind.  Perhaps 
it  rains  more  often,  and  there  are  fewer 
people.  Considering  that  its  vicinity 
has  been  the  scene  of  robbery,  murder, 
and  all  manner  of  adventurous  crime 
from  time  immemorial,  I  had  expected 
to  find  it  a  villainous  place.  It  is  noth- 
ing of  the  kind.  There  is  a  decent  ap- 


A  Roman  Singer. 


pearance  about  it  that  is  surprising ;  and 
though  the  houses  are  old  and  brown 
and  poor,  I  did  not  see  pigs  in  many 
rooms,  nor  did  the  little  children  beg  of 
me,  as  they  beg  of  every  one  elsewhere. 
The  absence  of  the  pigs  struck  me  par- 
ticularly, for  in  the  Sabine  towns  they 
live  in  common  with  the  family,  and 
go  out  only  in  the  daytime  to  pick  up 
what  they  can  get. 

I  went  to  the  apothecary  —  there  is 
always  an  apothecary  in  these  places  — 
and  inquired  for  a  lodging.  Before  very 
long  I  had  secured  a  room,  and  it  seemed 
that  the  people  were  accustomed  to  trav- 
elers, for  it  was  surprisingly  clean.  The 
bed  was  so  high  that  I  could  touch  the 
ceiling  when  I  sat  on  it,  and  the  walls 
were  covered  with  ornaments,  such  as 
glazed  earthenware  saints,  each  with  a 
little  basin  for  holy  water,  some  old 
engravings  of  other  saints,  a  few  paper 
roses  from  the  last  fair,  and  a  weather- 
beaten  game  pouch  of  leather.  The 
window  looked  out  over  a  kind  of  square, 
where  a  great  quantity  of  water  ran  into 
a  row  of  masonry  tanks  out  of  a  num- 
ber of  iron  pipes  projecting  from  an 
overhanging  rock.  Above  the  rock  was 
the  castle,  the  place  I  had  come  to  see, 
towering  up  against  the  darkening  sky. 

It  is  such  a  strange  place  that  I  ought 
to  describe  it  to  you,  or  you  will  not  un- 
derstand the  things  that  happened  there. 
There  is  a  great  rock,  as  I  said,  rising 
above  the  town,  and  upon  this  is  built 
the  feudal  stronghold,  so  that  the  walls 
of  the  building  do  not  begin  less  than 
forty  feet  from  the  street  level.  The 
height  of  the  whole  castle  consequent- 
ly seems  enormous.  The  walls,  for  the 
most  part,  follow  the  lines  of  the  gray 
rock,  irregularly,  as  chance  would  have 
it,  and  the  result  is  a  three-cornered 
pile,  having  a  high  square  tower  at  one 
angle,  where  also  the  building  recedes 
some  yards  from  the  edge  of  the  cliff, 
leaving  on  that  side  a  broad  terrace 
guarded  by  a  stone  parapet.  On  an- 
other side  of  the  great  isolated  bowlder 

a  narrow  roadway  heads  up  a  steep  in- 
cline, impracticable  for  carriages,  but 
passable  for  four-footed  beasts  ;  and  this 
path  gives  access  to  the  castle  through 
a  heavy  gate  opening  upon  a  small  court 
within.  But  the  rock  itself  has  been 
turned  to  account,  and  there  are  cham- 
bers within  it,  which  formerly  served  as 
prisons,  opening  to  the  right  and  left  of 
a  narrow  staircase,  hewn  out  of  the 
stone,  and  leading  from  the  foot  of  the 
tower  to  the  street  below  ;  upon  which 
it  opens  through  a  low  square  door,  set 
in  the  rock  and  studded  with  heavy  iron 

Below  the  castle  hangs  the  town,  and 
behind  it  rises  the  valley,  thickly  wooded 
with  giant  beech-trees.  Of  course  I 
learned  the  details  of  the  interior  lit- 
tle by  little,  and  I  gathered  also  some 
interesting  facts  regarding  the  history 
of  Fillettino,  which  are  not  in  any  way 
necessary  to  my  story.  The  first  thing 
I  did  was  to  find  out  what  means  of 
communication  there  were  with  Rome. 
There  was  a  postal  service  twice  a  week, 
and  I  was  told  that  Count  von  Lira, 
whose  name  was  no  secret  in  the  village, 
sent  messengers  very  often  to  Subiaco. 
The  post  left  that  very  day,  and  I  wrote 
to  Nino  to  tell  him  that  I  had  found  his 
friends  in  villeggiatura  at  Fillettino, 
advising  him  to  come  as  soon  as  he 
could,  and  t  recruit  his  health  and  his 

I  learned,  further,  from  the  woman 
who  rented  me  my  lodging,  that  there 
were  other  people  in  the  castle  besides 
the  count  and  his  daughter.  At  least, 
she  had  seen  a  tall  gentleman  on  the 
terrace  with  them  during  the  last  two 
days  ;  and  it  was  not  true  that  the  count 
kept  Hedwig  a  prisoner.  On  the  con- 
trary, they  rode  out  together  almost 
every  day,  and  yesterday  the  tall  gentle- 
man had  gone  with  them.  The  woman 
also  went  into  many  details  ;  telling  me 
how  much  money  the  count  had  spent 
in  a  fortnight,  bringing  furniture  and  a 
real  piano  and  immense  loads  of  baskets, 


A  Roman  Singer. 


which  the  porters  were  told  contained 
glass  and  crockery,  and  must  be  careful- 
ly handled.  It  was  clear  that  the  count 
was  settled  for  some  time.  He  had 
probably  taken  the  old  place  for  a  year, 
by  a  lease  from  the  Roman  family  to 
whom  Fillettino  and  the  neighboring 
estates  belong.  He  would  spend  the 
spring  and  the  summer  there,  at  least. 

Being  anxious  to  see  who  the  tall 
gentleman  might  be,  of  whom  my  land- 
lady had  spoken,  I  posted  myself  in  the 
street,  at  the  foot  of  the  inclined  bridle- 
path leading  to  the  castle  gate.  I  walked 
up  and  down  for  two  hours,  about  the 
time  I  supposed  they  would  all  ride,  hop- 
ing to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  party. 
Neither  the  count  nor  his  daughter  knew 
me  by  sight,  I  was  sure,  and  I  felt  quite 
safe.  It  was  a  long  time  to  wait,  but  at 
last  they  appeared,  and  I  confess  that  I 
nearly  fell  down  against  the  wall  when 
I  saw  them. 

There  they  were  on  their  horses, 
moving  cautiously  down  the  narrow 
way  above  me.  First  came  the  count, 
sitting  in  his  saddle  as  though  he  were 
at  the  head  of  his  old  regiment,  his  great 
gray  mustaches  standing  out  fiercely 
from  his  severe,  wooden  face.  Then 
came  Hedwig,  whom  I  had  not  seen  for 
a  long  time,  looking  as  white  and  sor- 
rowful as  the  angel  of  death,  in  a  close 
black  dress,  or  habit,  so  that  her  golden 
hair  was  all  the  color  there  was  to  be 
seen  about  her. 

But  the  third  rider,  —  there  was  no 
mistaking  that  thin,  erect  figure,  dressed 
in  the  affectation  of  youth  ;  those  fresh 
pink  cheeks,  with  the  snowy  mustache, 
and  the  thick  white  hair  showing  be- 
neath the  jaunty  hat ;  the  eagle  nose 
and  the  bright  eyes.  Baron  Benoni, 
and  no  other. 

My  first  instinct  was  to  hide  myself ; 
but  before  I  could  retreat,  Benoni  rec- 
ognized me,  even  with  my  old  clothes. 
Perhaps  they  are  not  so  much  older 
than  the  others,  compared  with  his  fash- 
ionable garments.  He  made  no  sign  as 

the  three  rode  by  ;  only  I  could  see  by 
his  eyes,  that  were  fixed  angrily  upon 
me,  that  he  knew  me,  and  did  not  wish 
to  show  it.  As  for  myself,  I  stood  stock 
still  in  amazement. 

I  had  supposed  that  Benoni  had  real- 
ly gone  to  Austria,  as  he  had  told  me 
he  was  about  to  do.  I  had  thought  him 
ignorant  of  the  count's  retreat,  save  for 
the  hint  which  had  so  luckily  led  me 
straight  to  the  mark.  I  had  imagined 
him  to  be  but  a  chance  acquaintance  of 
the  Lira  family,  having  little  or  no  per- 
sonal interest  in  their  doings.  Never- 
theless, I  had  suspected  him,  as  I  have 
told  you.  Everything  pointed  to  a  de- 
ception on  his  part.  He  had  evidently 
gone  immediately  from  Rome  to  Fillet- 
tino. He  must  be  intimate  with  the 
count,  or  the  latter  would  not  have  in- 
vited him  to  share  a  retreat  seemingly 
intended  to  be  kept  a  secret.  He  also, 
I  thought,  must  have  some  very  strong 
reason  for  consenting  to  bury  himself  in 
the  .mountains  in  company  with  a  father 
and  daughter  who  could  hardly  be  sup- 
posed to  be  on  good  terms  with  each 

But  again,  why  had  he  seemed  so 
ready  to  help  me  and  to  forward  Nino's 
suit  ?  Why  had  he  given  me  the  small- 
est clue  to  the  count's  whereabouts  ? 
Now  I  am  not  a  strong  man  in  action, 
perhaps,  but  I  am  a  very  cunning  rea- 
soner.  I  remembered  the  man,  and  the 
outrageous  opinions  he  had  expressed, 
both  to  Nino  and  to  me.  Then  I  un- 
derstood my  suspicions.  It  would  be 
folly  to  expect  such  a  man  to  have  any 
real  sympathy  or  sense  of  friendship  for 
any  one.  He  had  amused  himself  by 
promising  to  come  back  and  go  with  me 
on  my  search,  perhaps  to  make  a  laugh- 
ing-stock of  me,  or  even  of  my  boy,  by 
telling  the  story  to  the  Liras  afterwards. 
He  had  entertained  no  idea  that  I  would 
go  alone,  or  that,  if  I  went,  I  could  be 
successful.  He  had  made  a  mistake,  and 
was  very  angry ;  his  eyes  told  me  that. 
Then  I  made  a  bold  resolution.  I  would 


A  Roman  Singer. 


see  him  and  ask  him  what  he  intended 
to  do  ;  in  short,  why  he  had  deceived  me. 

There  would  probably  be  no  diffi- 
culty in  the  way  of  obtaining  an  in- 
terview. I  was  not  known  to  the  oth- 
ers of  the  party,  and  Benoni  would 
scarcely  refuse  to  receive  me.  I  thought 
he  would  excuse  himself,  with  ready 
cynicism,  and  pretend  to  continue  his 
offers  of  friendship  and  assistance.  I 
confess,  I  regretted  that  I  was  so  hum- 
bly clad,  in  all  my  old  clothes  ;  but  after 
all,  I  was  traveling,  you  know. 

It  was  a  bold  resolution,  I  think, 
and  I  revolved  the  situation  in  my  mind 
during  two  days,  thinking  over  what  I 
should  say.  But  with  all  my  thought 
I  only  found  that  everything  must  de- 
pend on  Benoui's  answer  to  my  own 
question  —  "  Why  ?  " 

On  the  third  day,  I  made  myself  look 
as  fine  as  I  could,  and  though  my  heart 
beat  loudly  as  I  mounted  the  bridle-path, 
I  put  on  a  bold  look  and  rang  the  bell. 
It  was  a  clanging  thing,  that  seemed  to 
creak  on  a  hinge,  as  I  pulled  the  stout 
string  from  outside.  A  man  appeared, 
and  on  my  inquiry  said  I  might  wait  in 
the  porch  behind  the  great  wooden  gate, 
while  he  delivered  my  message  to  his  ex- 
cellency the  baron.  It  seemed  to  take 
a  long  time,  and  I  sat  on  a  stone  bench, 
eying  the  courtyard  curiously  from  be- 
neath the  archway.  It  was  sunny  and 
clean,  with  an  old  well  in  the  middle,  but 
I  could  see  nothing  save  a  few  windows 
opening  upon  it.  At  last,  the  man  re- 
turned, and  said  that  I  might  come  with 

I  found  Benoni,  clad  in  a  gorgeous 
dressing-gown,  stalking  up  and  down  a 
large  vaulted  apartment,  in  which  there 
were  a  few  new  armchairs,  a  table  cov- 
ered with  books,  and  a  quantity  of  an- 
cient furniture,  that  looked  unsteady  and 
fragile,  although  it  had  been  carefully 
dusted.  A  plain  green  baize  carpet 
covered  about  half  the  floor,  and  the 
remainder  was  of  red  brick.  The  morn- 
ing sun  streamed  in  through  tall  win- 

dows, and  played  in  a  rainbow-like  efful- 
gence on  the  baron's  many  colored  dress- 
ing-gown, as  he  paused  in  his  walk  to 
greet  me. 

"  Well,  my  friend,"  said  Benoni  gayly, 
"  how  in  the  name  of  the  devil  did  you 
get  here  ?  "  I  thought  I  had  been  right ; 
he  was  going  to  play  at  being  my  friend 

"  Very  easily,  by  the  help  of  your  lit- 
tle hint,"  I  replied  ;  and  I  seated  myself, 
for  I  felt  that  I  was  master  of  the  situa- 

"  Ah,  if  I  had  suspected  you  of  be- 
ing so  intelligent,  I  would  not  have  giv- 
en you  any  hint  at  all.  You  see  I  have 
not  been  to  Austria  on  business,  but  am 
here  in  this  good  old  flesh  of  mine, 
such  as  it  is." 

"  Consequently  "  —  I  began,  and  then 
stopped.  I  suddenly  felt  that  Beuoni 
had  turned  the  tables  upon  me,  I  could 
not  tell  how. 

"  Consequently,"  said  he,  continuing 
my  sentence,  "  when  I  told  you  that  I 
was  going  to  Austria  I  was  lying." 

"  The  frankness  of  the  statement 
obliges  me  to  believe  that  you  are  now 
telling  the  truth,"  I  answered  angrily. 
I  felt  uneasy.  Benoni  laughed  in  his 
peculiar  way. 

"  Precisely,"  he  continued  again,  "  I 
was  lying.  I  generally  do,  for  so  long 
as  I  am  believed  I  deceive  people  ;  and 
when  they  find  me  out,  they  are  con- 
fused between  truth  and  lying,  so  that 
they  do  not  know  what  to  believe  at  all. 
By  the  bye,  I  am  wandering.  I  am  sorry 
to  see  you  here.  I  hope  you  understand 
that."  He  looked  at  me  with  the  most 
cheerful  expression.  I  believe  I  was 
beginning  to  be  angry  at  his  insulting 
calmness.  I  did  not  answer  him. 

"  Signor  Grandi,"  he  said  in  a  mo- 
ment, seeing  I  was  silent,  "  I  am  en- 
chanted to  see  you,  if  you  prefer  that  I 
should  be.  But  may  I  imagine  if  I  can 
do  anything  more  for  you,  now  that  you 
have  heard  from  my  own  lips  that  I  am 
a  liar  ?  I  say  it  again,  —  I  like  the  word, 


A  Roman  Singer. 


—  I  am  a  liar,  and  I  wish  I  were  a  bet- 
ter one.  What  can  I  do  for  you  ?  " 

"Tell  me  why  you  have  acted  this 
comedy,"  said  I,  recollecting  at  the  right 
moment  the  gist  of  my  reflections  dur- 
ing the  past  two  days. 

"  Why  ?  To  please  myself,  good  sir ; 
for  the  sovereign  pleasure  of  myself." 

"  I  would  surmise,"  I  retorted  tartly, 
"that  it  could  not  have  been  for  the 
pleasure  of  any  one  else." 

"  Perhaps  you  mean,  because  no  one 
else  could  be  base  enough  to  take  pleas- 
ure in  what  amuses  me  ?  "  I  nodded 
savagely  at  his  question.  "  Very  good. 
Knowing  this  of  me,  do  you  further 
surmise  that  I  should  be  so  simple  as  to 
tell  you  how  I  propose  to  amuse  myself 
in  the  future  ?  "  I  recognized  the  truth 
of  this,  and  I  saw  myself  checkmated 
at  the  outset.  I  therefore  smiled,  and 
endeavored  to  seem  completely  satisfied, 
hoping  that  his  vanity  would  betray  him 
into  some  hint  of  the  future.  He  seemed 
to  have  before  taken  pleasure  in  mis- 
leading me  with  a  fragment  of  truth, 
supposing  that  I  could  not  make  use  of 
it.  I  would  endeavor  to  lead  him  into 
such  a  trap  again. 

"  It  is  a  beautiful  country,  is  it  not  ?  " 
I  remarked,  going  to  the  window  before 
which  he  stood,  and  looking  out.  "  You 
must  enjoy  it  greatly,  after  the  turmoil 
of  society."  You  see,  I  was  once  as 
gay  as  any  of  them,  in  the  old  days; 
and  so  I  made  the  reflection  that  seemed 
natural  to  his  case,  wondering  how  he 
would  answer. 

"  It  is  indeed  a  very  passable  land- 
scape," he  said  indifferently.  "With 
horses  and  a  charming  companion  one 
may  kill  a  little  time  here,  and  find  a 
satisfaction  in  killing  it."  I  noticed  the 
slip,  by  which  he  spoke  of  a  single  com- 
panion instead  of  two. 

"  Yes,"  I  replied,  "  the  count  is  said 
to  be  a  most  agreeable  man." 

He  paused  a  moment,  and  the  hesita- 
tion seemed  to  show  that  the  count  was 
not  the  companion  he  had  in  his  mind. 

VOL.  mi.  —  NO.  315.  5 

"  Oh,  certainly,"  he  said,  at  length, 
"  the  count  is  very  agreeable,  and  his 
daughter  is  the  paragon  of  all  the  vir- 
tues and  accomplishments."  There  was 
something  a  little  disparaging  in  his  tone 
as  he  made  the  last  remark,  which 
seemed  to  me  a  clumsy  device  to  throw 
me  off  the  scent,  if  scent  there  were. 
Considering  his  surpassing  personal  van- 
ity, of  which  I  had  received  an  ocular 
demonstration  when  he  visited  me  in 
Rome,  I  fancied  that  if  there  were  noth- 
ing more  serious  in  his  thoughts  he 
would  have  given  me  to  understand  that 
Hedwig  found  him  entirely  irresistible. 
Since  he  was  able  to  control  his  vanity, 
there  must  be  a  reason  for  it. 

"  I  should  think  that  the  contessina 
must  be  charmed  at  having  so  brilliant 
a  companion  as  yourself  in  her  solitude," 
I  said,  feeling  my  way  to  the  point. 

"  With  me  ?  I  am  an  old  man.  Chil- 
dren of  that  age  detest  old  men."  I 
thought  his  manner  constrained,  and  it 
was  unlike  him  not  to  laugh  as  he  made 
the  speech.  The  conviction  grew  upon 
me  that  Hedwig  was  the  object  of  his 
visit.  Moreover,  I  became  persuaded 
that  he  was  but  a  poor  sort  of  villain, 
for  he  was  impulsive,  as  villains  should 
never  be.  We  leaned  over  the  stone 
sill  of  the  window,  which  he  had  opened 
during  the  conversation.  There  was  a 
little  trail  of  ants  climbing  up  and  down 
the  wall  at  the  side,  and  he  watched 
them.  One  of  the  small  creatures,  heavi- 
ly laden  with  a  seed  of  some  sort,  and 
toiling  painfully  under  the  burden,  had 
been  separated  from  the  rest,  and  clam- 
bered over  the  edge  of  the  window-sill. 
On  reaching  the  level  surface  it  paused, 
as  though  very  weary,  and  looked  about, 
moving  its  tiny  horns.  Benoni  looked 
at  it  a  moment,  and  then  with  one  finger 
he  suddenly  whisked  the  poor  little  thing 
into  space.  It  hurt  me  to  see  it,  and  I 
knew  he  must  be  cruel,  for  he  laughed 
aloud.  Somehow,  it  would  have  seemed 
less  cruel  to  have  brushed  away  the 
whole  trail  of  insects,  rather  than  to 


A  Roman  Singer. 


pitch  upon  this  one  small,  tired  workman, 
overladen  and  forgotten  by  the  rest. 

"  Why  did  you  do  that  ?  "  I  asked  in- 

"  Why  ?  Why  do  I  do  anything  ? 
Because  I  please,  the  best  of  all  rea- 

"  Of  course  ;  it  was  foolish  of  me  to 
ask  you.  That  is  probably  the  cause 
of  your  presence  here.  You  would  like 
to  hurl  my  boy  Nino  from  the  height 
he  has  reached  in  his  love,  and  to  sat- 
isfy your  cruel  instincts  you  have  come 
here  to  attack  the  heart  of  an  innocent 
girl."  I  watched  him  narrowly,  and 
I  have  often  wondered  how  I  had  the 
courage  to  insult  him.  It  was  a  bold 
shot  at  the  truth,  and  his  look  satisfied 
me  that  I  was  not  very  wide  of  the 
mark.  To  accuse  a  gray-haired  old 
man  of  attempting  to  win  the  affections 
of  a  young  girl  would  seem  absurd 
•enough.  But  if  you  had  ever  seen 
Benoni,  you  would  understand  that  he 
was  anything  but  old,  save  for  his  snowy 
locks.  Many  a  boy  might  envy  the 
strange  activity  of  his  thin  limbs,  the 
bloom  and  freshness  of  his  eager  face, 
and  the  fire  of  his  eyes.  He  was  im- 
pulsive, too  ;  for  instead  of  laughing  at 
the  absurdity  of  the  thing,  or  at  what 
should  have  been  its  absurdity,  as  a 
more  accomplished  villain  would  have 
done,  he  was  palpably  angry.  He 
looked  quickly  at  me  and  moved  savage- 
ly, so  that  I  drew  back,  and  it  was  not 
till  some  moments  later  that  it  occurred 
to  him  that  he  ought  to  seem  amused. 

"  How  ridiculous !  "  he  cried  at  last, 
mastering  his  anger.  "  You  are  jok- 

"  Oh,  of  course  I  am  joking,"  I  an- 
swered, leaving  the  window.  "  And  now 
I  must  wish  you  good-morning,  with 
many  apologies  for  my  intrusion."  He 
must  have  been  glad  to  be  rid  of  me, 
but  he  politely  insisted  on  showing  me 
to  the  gate.  Perhaps  he  wanted  to  be 
sure  that  I  should  not  ask  questions  of 
the  servants. 

As  we  passed  through  an  outer  hall, 
we  came  suddenly  upon  Hedwig,  enter- 
ing from  the  opposite  direction,  dressed 
in  black,  and  looking  like  a  beautiful 
shadow  of  pain.  As  I  have  told  you, 
she  did  not  know  me.  Benoni  bowed 
to  the  ground,  as  she  went  by,  making 
some  flattering  speech  about  her  appear- 
ance. She  had  started  slightly  on  first 
seeing  us,  and  then  she  went  on  with- 
out speaking  ;  but  there  was  on  her  face 
a  look  of  such  sovereign  scorn  and  loath- 
ing as  I  never  saw  on  the  features  of 
any  living  being.  And  more  than  scorn, 
for  there  was  fear  and  hatred  with  it; 
so  that  if  a  glance  could  tell  a  whole 
history,  there  would  have  been  no  detail 
of  her  feeling  for  Benoni  left  to  guess. 

This  meeting  produced  a  profound 
impression  on  me,  and  I  saw  her  face 
in  my  dreams  that  night.  Had  anything 
been  wanting  to  complete,  in  my  judg- 
ment, the  plan  of  the  situation  in  the 
castle,  that  something  was  now  supplied. 
The  Jew  had  come  there  to  get  her  for 
himself.  She  hated  him  for  his  own 
sake  ;  she  hated  him  because  she  was 
faithful  to  Nino  ;  she  hated  him  because 
he  perhaps  knew  of  her  secret  love  for 
my  boy.  Poor  maiden,  shut  up  for  days 
and  weeks  to  come  with  a  man  she 
dreaded  and  scorned  at  once !  The 
sight  of  her  recalled  to  me  that  I  had 
in  my  pocket  the  letter  Nino  had  sent 
me  for  her,  weeks  before,  and  which  I 
had  found  no  means  of  delivering  since 
I  had  been  in  Fillettino.  Suddenly  I 
was  seized  with  a  mad  determination  to 
deliver  it  at  any  cost.  The  baron  bowed 
me  out  of  the  gate,  and  I  paused  qut- 
side  when  the  ponderous  door  had  swung 
on  its  hinges  and  his  footsteps  were  echo- 
ing back  through  the  court. 

I  sat  down  on  the  parapet  of  the 
bridle-path,  and  with  my  knife  cut  some 
of  the  stitches  that  sewed  ray  money  be- 
tween my  two  waistcoats.  I  took  out 
one  of  the  bills  of  a  hundred  francs  that 
were  concealed  within,  I  found  the  let- 
ter Nino  had  sent  me  for  Hedwig,  and 


A  Roman  Singer. 


I  once  more  rang  the  bell.  The  man 
who  had  admitted  me  came  again,  and 
looked  at  me  in  some  astonishment. 
But  I  gave  him  no  time  to  question  me. 

"  Here  is  a  note  for  a  hundred  francs," 
I  said.  "  Take  it,  and  give  this  letter 
to  the  Signora  Contessina.  If  you  bring 
me  a  written  answer  here  to-morrow  at 
this  hour,  I  will  give  you  as  much  more." 
The  man  was  dumfounded  for  a  mo- 
ment, after  which  he  clutched  the  money 
and  the  letter  greedily,  and  hid  them  in 
his  coat. 

"  Your  excellency  shall  be  punctually 
obeyed,"  he  said,  with  a  deep  bow,  and 
I  went  away. 

It  was  recklessly  extravagant  of  me  to 
do  this,  but  there  was  no  other  course. 
A  small  bribe  would  have  been  worse 
than  none  at  all.  If  you  can  afford  to 
pay  largely,  it  is  better  to  bribe  a  ser- 
vant than  to  trust  a  friend.  Your  friend 
has  nothing  to  gain  by  keeping  your  se- 
cret, whereas  the  servant  hopes  for  more 
money  in  the  future,  and  the  prospect  of 
profit  makes  him  as  silent  as  the  grave. 

I  would  certainly  not  have  acted  as  I 
did,  had  I  not  met  Hedwig  in  the  hall. 
But  the  sight  of  her  pale  face  and  heavy 
eyes  went  to  my  heart,  and  I  would  have 
given  the  whole  of  my  little  fortune  to 
bring  some  gladness  to  her,  even  though 
I  might  not  see  it.  The  situation,  too, 
was  so  novel  and  alarming  that  I  felt 
obliged  to  act  quickly,  not  knowing  what 
evils  delay  might  produce. 

On  the  following  morning  I  went  up 
to  the  gateway  again  and  rang  the  bell. 
The  same  man  appeared.  He  slipped  a 
note  into  my  hand,  and  I  slipped  a  bill 
into  bis.  But,  to  my  surprise,  he  did  not 
shut  the  door  and  retire. 

"  The  signorina  said  your  excellency 
should  read  the  note,  and  I  should  ac- 
company you,"  he  said ;  and  I  saw  he 
had  his  hat  in  his  hand,  as  if  ready  to 
go.  I  tore  open  the  note.  It  merely 
said  that  the  servant  was  trustworthy, 
and  would  "  instruct  the  Signor  Grandi " 
how  to  act. 

"You  told  the  contessina  my  name, 
then?"  I  said  to  the  man.  He  had  an- 
nounced me  to  the  baron,  and  conse- 
quently knew  who  I  was.  He  nodded, 
closed  the  door  behind  him,  and  came 
with  me.  When  we  were  in  the  street, 
he  explained  that  Hedwig  desired  to 
speak  with  me.  He  expounded  the  fact 
that  there  was  a  staircase  in  the  rock, 
leading  to  the  level  of  the  town.  Fur- 
thermore, he  said  that  the  old  count  and 
the  baron  occasionally"  drank  deeply,  as 
soldiers  and  adventurers  will  do.  to  pass 
the  evening.  The  next  time  it  occurred, 
he,  the  faithful  servant,  would  come  to 
my  lodging  and  conduct  me  into  the 
castle  by  the  aforesaid  passage,  of  which 
he  had  the  key. 

I  confess  I  was  unpleasantly  alarmed 
at  the  prospect  of  making  a  burglarious 
entrance  in  such  romantic  fashion.  It 
savored  more  of  the  last  century  than 
of  the  quiet  and  eminently  respectable 
age  in  which  we  live.  But  then,  the 
castle  of  Fillettino  was  built  hundreds 
of  years  ago,  and  it  is  not  my  fault  if  it 
has  not  gone  to  ruin,  like  so  many  others 
of  its  kind.  The  man  recommended  me 
to  be  always  at  home  after  eight  o'clock 
in  the  evening,  in  case  I  were  wanted, 
and  to  avoid  seeing  the  baron  when  he 
was  abroad.  He  came  and  saw  where 
I  lived,  and  with  many  bows  he  left 

You  may  imagine  in  what  anxiety  I 
passed  my  time.  A  whole  week  elapsed, 
and  yet  I  was  never  summoned.  Every 
evening  at  seven,  an  hour  "before  the 
time  named,  I  was  in  my  room,  waiting 
for  some  one  who  never  came.  I  was 
so  much  disturbed  in  mind  that  I  lost 
my  appetite  and  thought  of  being  bled 
again.  But  I  thought  it  too  soon,  and 
contented  myself  with  getting  a  little 
tamarind  from  the  apothecary. 

One  morning  the  apothecary,  who  is 
also  the  postmaster,  gave  me  a  letter  from 
Nino,  dated  in  Rome.  His  engagement 
was  over,  he  had  reached  Rome,  and  he 
would  join  me  immediately. 

F.  Marion  Crawford. 

68  At  the  Saturday  Club.  [January, 


THIS  is  our  place  of  meeting ;  opposite 

That  towered  and  pillared  building :  look  at  it ; 

King's  Chapel  in  the  Second  George's  day, 

Rebellion  stole  its  regal  name  away, — 

Stone  Chapel  sounded  better ;  but  at  last 

The  poisoned  name  of  our  provincial  past 

Had  lost  its  ancient  venom ;  then  once  more 

Stone  Chapel  was  King's  Chapel  as  before,  — 

(So  let  rechristened  North  Street,  when  it  can, 

Bring  back  the  days  of  Marlborough  and  Queen  Anne !) 

Next  the  old  church  your  wandering  eye  will  meet 
A  granite  pile  that  stares  upon  the  street,  — 
Our  civic  temple ;  slanderous  tongues  have  said 
Its  shape  was  modelled  from  Saint  Botolph's  head, 
Lofty,  but  narrow  ;  jealous  passers-by 
Say  Boston  always  held  her  head  too  high. 

Turn  half-way  round,  and  let  your  look  survey 
The  white  fagade  that  gleams  across  the  way,  — 
The  many-windowed  building,  tall  and  wide, 
The  palace-inn  that  shows  its  northern  side 
In  grateful  shadow  when  the  sunbeams  beat 
The  granite  wall  in  summer's  scorching  heat ; 
This  is  the  place  ;   whether  its  name  you  spell 
Tavern,  or  caravansera,  or  hotel. 
Would  I  could  steal  its  echoes !  you  should  find 
Such  store  of  vanished  pleasures  brought  to  mind,  — 
Such  feasts  !  the  laughs  of  many  a  jocund  hour 
That  shook  the  mortar  from  King  George's  tower,  — 
Such  guests  !     What  famous  names  its  record  boasts, 
Whose  owners  wander  in  the  mob  of  ghosts  ! 
Such  stories  !  every  beam  and  plank  is  filled 
With  juicy  wit  the  joyous  talkers  spilled, 
Ready  to  ooze,  as  once  the  mountain  pine 
The  floors  are  laid  with  oozed  its  turpentine ! 

A  month  had  flitted  since  The  Club  had  met; 
The  day  came  round ;  I  found  the  table  set, 
The  waiters  lounging  round  the  iron  stairs, 
Empty  as  yet  the  double  row  of  chairs. 
I  was  a  full  half  hour  before  the  rest, 
Alone,  the  banquet-chamber's  single  guest. 
So  from  the  table's  side  a  chair  I  took, 
And  having  neither  company  nor  book 
To  keep  me  waking,  by  degrees  there  crept 
A  torpor  over  me,  —  in  short,  I  slept. 

Loosed  from  its  chain,  along  the  wreck-strown  track 
Of  the  dead  years  my  soul  goes  travelling  back ; 

1884.]  At  the  Saturday  Club.  69 

My  ghosts  take  on  their  robes  of  flesh  ;  it  seems 
Dreaming  is  life  ;  nay,  life  less  life  than  dreams, 
So  real  are  the  shapes  that  meet  my  eyes. 
They  bring  no  sense  of  wonder,  no  surprise, 
No  hint  of  other  than  an  earth-born  source ; 
All  seems  plain  daylight,  everything  of  course. 

How  dim  the  colors  are,  how  poor  and  faint 
This  palette  of  weak  words  with  which  I  paint ! 
Here  sit  my  friends ;  if  I  could  fix  them  so 
As  to  my  eyes  they  seem,  my  page  would  glow 
Like  a  queen's  missal,  warm  as  if  the  brush 
Of  Titian  or  Velasquez  brought  the  flush 
Of  life  into  their  features.     Ay  de  mi ! 
If  syllables  were  pigments,  you  should  see 
Such  breathing  portraitures  as  never  man 
Found  in  the  Pitti  or  the  Vatican. 

Here  sits  our  POET,  Laureate,  if  you  will, 
Long  has  he  worn  the  wreath,  and  wears  it  still. 
Dead  ?     Nay,  not  so  ;  and  yet  they  say  his  bust 
Looks  down  on  marbles  covering  royal  dust, 
Kings  by  the  Grace  of  God,  or  Nature's  grace; 
Dead!     No !     Alive !     I  see  him  in  his  place, 
Full-featured,  with  the  bloom  that  heaven  denies 
Her  children,  pinched  by  cold  New  England  skies, 
Too  often,  while  the  nursery's  happier  few 
Win  from  a  summer  cloud  its  roseate  hue. 
Kind,  soft-voiced,  gentle,  in  his  eye  there  shines 
The  ray  serene  that  filled  Evangeline's. 

Modest  he  seems,  not  shy  ;  content  to  wait 
Amid  the  noisy  clamor  of  debate 
The  looked-for  moment  when  a  peaceful  word 
Smooths  the  rough  ripples  louder  tongues  have  stirred. 
In  every  tone  I  mark  his  tender  grace 
And  all  his  poems  hinted  in  his  face  ; 
What  tranquil  joy  his  friendly  presence  gives  ! 
How  could  I  think  him  dead  ?     He  lives  !     He  lives ! 

There,  at  the  table's  further  end  I  see 
In  his  old  place  our  Poet's  vis-a-vis, 
The  great  PROFESSOR,  strong,  broad-shouldered,  square, 
In  life's  rich  noontide,  joyous,  debonair. 
His  social  hour  no  leaden  care  alloys, 
His  laugh  rings  loud  and  mirthful  as  a  boy's, 
That  lusty  laugh  the  Puritan  forgot, 
What  ear  has  heard  it  and  remembers  not? 
How  often,  halting  at  some  wide  crevasse 
Amid  the  windings  of  his  Alpine  pass, 
High  up  the  cliffs,  the  climbing  mountaineer, 
Listening  the  far-off  avalanche  to  hear, 

70  At  the  Saturday   Club.  [January, 

Silent,  and  leaning  on  his  steel-shod  staff, 
Has  heard  that  cheery  voice,  that  ringing  laugh, 
From  the  rude  cabin  whose  nomadic  walls 
Creep  with  the  moving  glacier  as  it  crawls ! 

How  does  vast  Nature  lead  her  living  train 
In  ordered  sequence  through  that  spacious  brain, 
As  in  the  primal  hour  when  Adam  named 
The  new-born  tribes  that  young  creation  claimed !  — 
How  will  her  realm  be  darkened,  losing   thee, 
Her  darling,  whom  we  call  our  AGASSIZ  ! 

But  who  is  he  whose  massive  frame  belies 
The  maiden  shyness  of  his  downcast  eyes  ? 
Who  broods  in  silence  till,  by  questions  pressed, 
Some  answer  struggles  from  his  laboring  breast  ? 
An  artist  Nature  meant  to  dwell  apart, 
Locked  in  his  studio  with  a  human  heart, 
Tracking  its  caverned  passions  to  their  lair, 
And  all  its  throbbing  mysteries  laying  bare. 

Count  it  no  marvel  that  he  broods  alone 
Over  the  heart  he  studies,  —  't  is  his  own ; 
So  in  his  page  whatever  shape  it  wear, 
The  Essex  wizard's  shadowed  self  is  there, — 
The  great  ROMANCER,  hid  beneath  his  veil 
Like  the  stern  preacher  of  his  sombre  tale  ; 
Virile  in  strength,  yet  bashful  as  a  girl, 
Prouder  than  Hester,  sensitive  as  Pearl. 

From  his  mild  throng  of  worshippers  released, 
Our  Concord  Delphi  sends  its  chosen  priest, 
Prophet  or  poet,  mystic,  sage,  or  seer, 
By  every  title  always  welcome  here. 
Why  that  ethereal  spirit's  frame  describe? 
You  know  the  race-marks  of  the  Brahmin  tribe,  — 
The  spare,  slight  form,  the  sloping  shoulders'  droop, 
The  calm,  scholastic  air,  the  clerkly  stoop, 
The  lines  of  thought  the  narrowed  features  wear, 
Worn  sharp  by  studious  nights  and  frugal  fare. 

List !    for  he  speaks  !     As  when  a  king  would  choose 
The  jewels  for  his  bride,  he  might  refuse 
This  diamond  for  its  flaw,  —  find  that  less  bright 
Than  those,  its  fellows,  and  a  pearl  less  white 
Than  fits  her  snowy  neck,  and  yet  at  last, 
The  fairest  gems  are  chosen,  and  made  fast 
In  golden  fetters  ;   so,  with  light  delays 
He  seeks  the  fittest  word  to  fill  his  phrase ; 
Nor  vain  nor  idle  his  fastidious  quest, 
His  chosen  word  is  sure  to  prove  the  best. 

Where  in  the  realm  of  thought,  whose  air  is  song, 
Does  he,  the  Buddha  of  the  West,  belong  ? 

1884.]  The  Study  of  Greek.  71 

He  seems  a  winged  Franklin,  sweetly  wise, 

Born  to  uulock  the  secrets  of  the  skies  ; 

And  which  the  nobler  calling,  —  if  'tis  fair 

Terrestrial  with  celestial  to  compare,  — : 

To  guide  the  storm-cloud's  elemental  flame, 

Or  walk  the  chambers  whence  the  lightning  came, 

Amidst  the  sources  of  its  subtile  fire, 

And  steal  their  effluence  for  his  lips  and  lyre  ? 

If  lost  at  times  in  vague  aerial  flights, 
None  treads  with  firmer  footstep  when  he  lights ; 
A  soaring  nature,  ballasted  with  sense, 
Wisdom  without  her  wrinkles  or  pretence, 
In  every  Bible  he  has  faith  to  read, 
And  every  altar  helps  to  shape  his  creed. 
Ask  you  what  name  this  prisoned  spirit  bears 
While  with  ourselves  this  fleeting  breath  it  shares  ? 
Till  angels  greet  him  with  a  sweeter  one 
In  Heaven,  on  earth  we  call  him  EMERSON. 

I  start ;   I  wake ;   the  vision  is  withdrawn 
New  faces  greet  me,  but  the  old  are  gone ; 
Crossed  from  the  roll  of  life  their  cherished  names, 
And  memory's  pictures  fading  in  their  frames  ; 
Yet  life  is  lovelier  for  these  transient  gleams 
Of  buried  friendships ;  blest  is  he  who  dreams  ! 

Oliver   Wendell  Holmes. 


THERE  are  reasons  why  the  earliest 
philosophy  and  literature  of  the  civil- 
ized world  should  have  not  only  a  tran- 
scendent interest,  but  a  unique  teaching 
power.  Our  abstract  terms  are  con- 
crete; our  simple  ideas  are  complex.  In 
the  realm  of  mind  the  course  of  things 
in  physical  science  has  been  reversed. 
The  ancients  had  four  elements ;  we 
have  fourscore,  or  more.  But  it  often 
takes  many  of  their  elementary  thoughts 
to  make  one  of  ours.  Thus  the  study 
of  the  old  philosophers  leads  us  into  a 
more  minute  analysis  of  the  rudiments 
of  ontology,  and  of  deontology,  too,  than 
is  dreamed  of  by  their  successors  in 
these  latter  centuries.  In  poetry,  equal- 
ly, our  comprehensive  knowledge  and 

our  easy  command  of  nature  place  us 
at  a  disadvantage.  There  is  no  scope 
for  the  imagination  in  fields  of  space 
thoroughly  measured,  familiarly  known, 
and  traversed  with  more  than  the  speed 
of  the  wind.  The  master  of  a  paltry 
coasting  vessel  who  should  encounter 
any  serious  peril,  or  bring  home  ac- 
counts of  any  wonderful  adventure  or 
strange  sight,  on  a  voyage  like  that  de- 
scribed in  the  Odyssey,  would  be  re- 
manded to  the  forecastle.  Yet  there 
still  exist  on  that  route  as  rich  materials 
for  the  plastic  imagination  afc  Homer 
found  there ;  but  we  must  go  back  to 
Homer  to  find  them.  It  is,  moreover, 
well  that  we  should  go  back  ;  for  steam 
and  electro-magnetism  are  too  fast  ex- 


The  Study  of  GrreeJc. 


orcising  the  spirits  that  used  to  dwell  in 
wave  and  storm,  in  fountain,  field,  and 
forest,  and  degrading  poetry  into  loose- 
jointed  metaphysics,  or  sentimental  ego- 
tism, rhythmically  written.  We  must  ad- 
mit, however,  that  the  best  translations 
will  furnish  a  very  large  part  of  the 
profit  and  pleasure  to  be  derived  from 
the  Greek  classics. 

Yet  not  all.  There  ,-is  the  untrans- 
latable in  every  language,  and  in  none 
more  than  in  the  Greek.  There  are, 
especially  in  Homer,  in  the  tragedians, 
and  in  Aristophanes,  compound  words 
to  which  we  have  none  that  correspond, 
and  which  drop  much  of  their  meaning 
in  a  paraphrase ;  and  there  are  turns  of 
expression,  descriptive  traits,  metaphors, 
which  are  almost  despoiled  of  their  per- 
tinence and  beauty  either  by  a  literal 
rendering  or  by  a  free  translation.  Take, 
for  instance,  the  apostrophe  of  Prome- 
theus to  the  sea,  in  the  tragedy  of 
-ZEschylus  that  bears  his  name, — TTOI>- 
Tiuiv  KVfjia.T<j}V  avrjpiO/jiov  yeAacr^ta,  liter- 
ally, innumerable  laugh  of  sea-waves, 
which  is  not  graceful  English.  The 
Greek  implies  something  seen  and  some- 
thing heard,  —  the  manifold  glancing 
of  the  sunlight  from  a  slightly  mottled 
surface,  and  the  gentle,  gleeful  murmur 
of  the  sluggish  waves  as  they  lap  the 
shore.  This  very  phrase  adds  a  new 
joy  to  the  seaside.  There  are,  too,  sin- 
gle words,  phrases,  verses,  which  plant 
themselves  ineradicably  in  the  memory, 
and  which  are  not  infrequently  recalled 
even  by  those  whose  Greek  scholarship 
is  neither  deep  nor  fresh.  It  is  hardly 
too  much  to  say  that  the  pleasure  of 
reading  and  of  having  read  the  Prome- 
theus Vinctus  of  JEschylus  in  the  orig- 
inal is  worth  the  time  and  labor  spent 
in  acquiring  the  capacity  to  read  it. 

But  it  is  not  our  present  purpose  to 
discuss  the  comparative  worth  of  aesthetic 
pleasures  ;  nor  are  we  prepared  to  deny 
that,  for  many  minds  at  least,  equal  en- 
joyment with  that  derived  from  the  an- 
cient classics  may  flow  from  the  litera- 

ture of  our  own  or  other  modern  tongues. 
What  is  now  proposed  is  to  consider  the 
worth  of  Greek,  in  its  practical  aspects, 
for  a  liberally  educated  man,  whatever 
his  profession  may  be. 

In  the  first  place,  the  study  of  Greek 
is  of  immeasurable  worth  in  forming  a 
good  English  style.  Comparative  phi- 
lology is  as  essential  to  a  knowledge  of 
grammar  as  comparative  anatomy  is  to 
a  knowledge  of  the  human  frame.  No 
man  ignorant  of  other  languages  under- 
stands the  powers  and  capacities  of  his 
own.  Especially  is  grammar  learned  by 
acquaintance  with  languages  that  have  a 
grammar,  which  the  English  hardly  pos- 
sesses, and  which  those  modern  languages 
that  are  the  abraded  debris  of  the  Latin 
possess  very  imperfectly,  but  which  is 
preeminently  the  attribute  of  the  Greek. 
There  is  not  an  inflection  of  a  variable 
Greek  word  which  does  not  represent 
a  corresponding  inflection  of  thought, 
and  a  corresponding  expression  of  the 
thought  in  English.  Conversance  with 
such  a  language  tends  to  create  precision, 
copiousness,  and  flexibility  in  the  choice 
and  use  of  words.  Then,  too,  the  trans- 
lation of  Greek  into  English  teaches  the 
pupil  as  much  English  as  Greek.  In 
the  competitive  endeavor  to  furnish  the 
best  rendering  of  the  Greek  text,  he  en- 
riches his  English  vocabulary,  and  ac- 
quires invaluable  experience  in  its  use. 
It  is  virtually  an  exercise  in  English 
composition,  with  this  difference  in  its 
favor  :  that  the  young  writer  of  themes 
is  confined  within  his  own  narrow  range 
of  thoughts  and  the  words  that  repre- 
sent them,  while  in  translating  Greek  he 
is  obliged  to  seek  and  ambitious  to  find 
adequate  expression  for  what  is  pictur- 
esque, graphic,  grand,  and  beautiful,  far 
beyond  anything  of  his  own  that  he 
will  write  for  years  to  come,  if  ever, 
yet  enabling  him,  whenever  he  has  any- 
thing to  say,  to  clothe  it  in  such  drapery 
as  shall  render  it  presentable. 

This  is  not  a  matter  of  mere  theory. 
It  is  perfectly  easy  to  detect  the  absence 


The  Study  of  Greek. 


of  classical  training  in  a  writer.  There 
are  undoubtedly  exceptions,  but  so  few 
as  not  to  disprove  the  rule.  In  many 
years'  experience  as  an  editor  we  never 
failed  to  detect  a  difference  in  favor  of 
contributors  who  had  received  a  clas- 
sical education  ;  and  in  some  cases,  and 
with  reference  to  writers  of  superior 
ability  and  reputation,  we  discovered 
the  deficiency  in  that  regard  from  inter- 
nal evidence  before  we  otherwise  ob- 
tained knowledge  of  the  fact.  Jsor  was 
it  unusual  for  such  a  writer  to  impose 
upon  the  editor  hardly  less  labor  in 
bringing  a  valuable  paper  before  the 
public  than  had  been  employed  in  its 
first  composition  ;  thus  rendering  it  cer- 
tain that,  when  he  published  anything 
on  his  own  account,  he  was  largely  in- 
debted to  a  competent  reviser  or  proof- 
reader. The  men  to  whom  we  refer 
were  all  well  educated,  doubtless  famil- 
iar with  one  or  two  modern  languages, 
and  it  may  be  supposed  with  the  amount 
of  Latin  that  used  to  be  taught  in  the 
upper  classes  of  our  academies  and  high 
schools.  One  of  them  was  the  presi- 
dent of  one  of  our  oldest  and  best  en- 
dowed colleges,  after  an  eminent  career 
at  the  bar  and  on  the  bench  of  his  na- 
tive State*;  and  he  not  only  in  his  let- 
ters expressed  deep  regrej;  that  he  had 
learned,  in  his  boyhood,  little  Latin  and 
no  Greek,  but  showed  in  papers,  other- 
wise of  great  merit,  a  sad  lack  of  proper 
linguistic  training. 

It  would  be  well  worth  our  while  to 
see  how  a  man  of  this  sort  would  con- 
duct the  war  against  Greek.  Its  assail- 
ants, so  far  as  we  know,  have  had  and 
have  manifested  the  benefit  of  classical 
training  in  a  style  with  the  genuine 
stamp  and  ring ;  and  one  of  the  ablest 
and  most  graceful  of  them,  among  the 
recreations  of  his  old  age,  found  special 
delight  and  won  no  little  reputation  by 
the  version  of  certain  well-known  nur- 
sery melodies  into  Greek  verse,  in  me- 
tres with  which  the  most  fastidious 
scholar  could  fiud  no  fault. 

It  may,  indeed,  be  said  that  every 
man  does  not  need  to  be  a  good  writer. 
True.  But  it  is  equally  true  that  no 
well-educated  man  ought  to  be  incapa- 
ble of  being  a  good  writer.  There  are 
few  men  of  culture  who  do  not  perform 
more  or  less  pen-work,  whether  in  pri- 
vate correspondence,  or  in  reports  or 
addresses  to  a  smaller  or  larger  public  ; 
and  hardly  less  than  good  manners,  the 
free  and  graceful  use  of  the  pen  on  or- 
dinary occasions  is  essential  to  the  orna- 
ment and  dignity  of  social  life.  It  is 
especially  desirable  that  our  scientific 
men  should  keep  themselves  on  the 
same  plane  with  their  brethren  in  other 
lands.  We  crave  for  them  the  ease, 
suppleness,  and  elegance  of  diction  so 
eminently  characteristic  of  the  great 
English  scientists  of  our  day,  who  may 
have  obtained  ascendency  among  their 
peers  chiefly  by  demonstration  and  argu- 
ment, but  who  in  large  part  have  owed 
their  power  in  moulding  general  opinion 
and  belief  to  their  skill  in  handling  that 
most  subtle  and  delicate  of  organs,  our 
vernacular  English.  At  least,  let  our 
scientific  professors  and  writers  learn  a 
lesson  from  jEsop's  curtailed  fox,  and 
keep  out  of  the  trap  till  they  can  make 
the  amputation  of  classical  culture, 
which  some  of  them  commend,  accepta- 
ble to  all  their  kind. 

To  pass  to  another  consideration,  we 
look  to  our  liberally  educated  men  for 
the  guardianship  and  oversight  of  our 
educational  institutions.  Even  the  most 
sanguine  of  the  anti-Greek  host  do  not 
anticipate  the  speedy  advent  of  the  time 
when  Greek  will  not  form  an  impor- 
tant, and  in  some  quarters  a  favored, 
portion  of  the  high-school  curriculum. 
Some  years  ago,  the  chairman  of  the 
committee  on  modern  languages,  ap- 
pointed by  the  visiting  board  of  one  of 
our  colleges,  when  asked  which  of  four 
recitation  -  rooms,  devoted  to  as  many 
tongues,  he  would  first  honor  by  his 
presence,  frankly  replied,  "  It  makes  no 
manner  of  difference  to  me  ;  I  know  not 


The  Study  of  Greek. 


a  word  of  either  of  those  languages." 
We  should  be  sorry  to  see  the  time 
when  a  graduate  of  that  same  college 
may  be  constrained  to  make  a  like  im- 
partial visitation  of  a  classical  school  or 
academy  under  his  charge.  Careful,  dis- 
criminating cognizance  of  every  kind  of 
school- work  by  competent  trustees  or 
supervisors  was  never  so  necessary  as 
now,  when  a  large  part  of  that  work  is 
in  the  hands  of  novices,  who  take  the 
office  of  teacher  on  their  way  from 
college  to  some  permanent  profession. 
The  utter  incapacity  to  follow  a  class 
in  a  simple  lesson  in  the  Greek  Reader 
would  be  taken  by  the  class  for  much 
more  than  it  means,  and  the  incompe- 
tent classical  scholar  would  suffer  far 
more  than  he  deserved  as  regards  re- 
spect for  and  confidence  in  his  general 
intelligence  and  scholarship.  One  would 
hardly  covet  the  position  of  the  college 
president  already  mentioned,  who  must 
either  have  kept  clear  of  the  Greek  de- 
partment, or  felt  an  oppressive  awkward- 
ness in  visiting  it.  It  would  be  unfortu- 
nate were  one  of  our  colleges  to  estab- 
lish an  alternative  curriculum,  which 
should  at  some  future  time  render  its 
most  honored  graduates  unfit  to  preside 
creditably  in  its  counsels.  This  argu- 
ment seems  to  us  of  no  little  weight ; 
yet  it  would  lose  its  force  were  the  study 
of  Greek  to  lapse  into  general  disrepute 
and  neglect.  Let  us  pass  to  some  rea- 
sons why  it  cannot  so  decline,  but,  even 
in  case  of  temporary  discredit,  must  be 
restored  to  a  permanent  place  among  the 
essential  departments  of  liberal  culture. 
The  Greek  is  in  many  respects  the 
most  important  factor  of  the  English 
language.  Of  the  words  used  and  un- 
derstood by  persons  of  narrow  intelli- 
gence and  little  reading,  while  there  are 
many  derived  from  the  Greek,  the  great- 
er part  are  of  other  origin.  Of  the  ad- 
ditional words  used  and  understood  by 
educated  persons,  by  reading  and  think- 
ing persons,  and  by  those  conversant 
with  the  arts  and  sciences,  more,  proba- 

bly, are  derived  from  the  Greek  than 
from  all  other  languages  beside.  The 
same  is  true  of  words  that  have  been 
formed  and  have  come  into  use  within 
the  last  half  century,  and  of  those  which 
are  at  this  moment  pressing  their  way 
into  current  use.  Of  the  sources  of 
English  diction,  some  are  drained  and 
dry,  others  are  intermittent ;  the  Greek 
alone  maintains  a  constant  and  copi- 
ous flow.  It  furnishes  the  names  of  all 
the  sciences,  and  of  many  of  the  arts ; 
of  many  geometrical  figures  ;  of  almost 
every  mathematical,  astronomical,  and 
physical  instrument ;  of  many  of  the 
old  and  of  almost  all  the  new  surgical 
instruments  ;  and  of  most  of  the  various 
instruments,  apparatus,  and  methods  em- 
ployed in  the  practical  applications  of 
science.  Chemistry  derives  from  it  the 
larger  and  more  important  part  of  its 
nomenclature.  In  botany  it  has  given 
names  to  all  the  classes  and  orders  of 
the  Linnsean  system,  and,  equally,  to 
the  series,  classes,  sub-classes,  and  di- 
visions thereof,  in  the  system  that  has 
superseded  it.  There  is  no  department 
of  life,  no  line  of  business,  hardly  an 
invoice  of  goods,  never  a  column  of  ad- 
vertisements in  a  newspaper,  that  is  not 
bristling  with  Greek  words.  The  man 
who  makes  an  invention,  precious  or 
worthless,  deserving  a  high-sounding 
name  or  craving  one  to  catch  the  pop- 
ular ear,  resorts  nowhere  but  to  the 
Greek  for  the  term  that  he  needs.  In 
a  late  edition  — we  dare  not  say  the  last 
—  of  Webster's  quarto  Dictionary,  of 
words  beginning  with  ana  there  are 
159,  with  anth  64,  with  chl  27,  with  chr 
90,  with  geo  60,  with  ph  436,  with  ps 
86,  with  sy  294.  To  these  should  be 
added  about  100  out  of  126  words,  with 
these  several  beginnings,  in  the  Sup- 
plement, a  few  of  which  are  the  same 
words  with  different  meanings,  but  most 
of  which  are  different  words.  We  have 
in  these  several  classes  more  than  thir- 
teen hundred  words,  not  twenty  of  which 
are  of  other  than  Greek  derivation.  The 


The  Study  of  Greek. 


list,  to  be  sure,  embraces  several  large 
clusters  of  words  from  a  common  root, 
it  may  be,  not  larger  than  some  from 
Latin  roots  that  might  be  named ;  but 
if  Greek  roots  are  really  more  prolific 
than  any  others,  it  only  shows  their  vi- 
tality when  thus  transplanted,  and  their 
special  adaptation  to  English  soil.  There 
are  also  several  terminations  not  uncom- 
mon in  our  language  which,  perhaps 
with  no  exceptions,  certainly  with  few, 
indicate  a  Greek  origin.  Such  are  atry, 
gen,  ics,  metry,  ogy,  phy,  sis,  tomy. 
Many  of  the  words  thus  ending  are,  in- 
deed, included  'In  the  thirteen  hundred  ; 
but  the  greater  part  of  them  would  be 
found  under  other  initial  letters. 

A  great  many  of  these  words  are  tech- 
nical words,  the  meaning^  of  which  it  is 
important,  or  at  least  becoming,  that  sci- 
entific men  and  practical  men  of  liberal 
culture  should  know.  In  saying  this, 
we  would  place  special  emphasis  on  the 
word  know.  To  know  that  a  certain 
instrument  is  designated  by  a  certain 
word  is  not  to  know  the  meaning  of  the 
word  ;  a  liberally  educated  man  ought  to 
know  why  the  instrument  is  called  by 
that  name  rather  than  by  any  other. 
Now  the  technical  and  scientific  terms 
derived  from  the  Greek  are,  without  ex- 
ception, significant  names,  descriptive  of 
the  properties,  objects,  or  classes  of  ob- 
jects which  they  represent,  and  so  de- 
scriptive of  them  that  one  previously 
unacquainted  with  them  would  learn 
what  they  are  from  their  names  alone. 
Thus  a  Greek  scholar  who  had  never 
heard  of  a  thermometer,  or  a  micro- 
scope, or  a  phototype,  would  at  once 
kno-,v  what  they  were ;  while  a  man  ig- 
norant of  Greek,  though  he  might  know 
that  certain  objects  were  called  by  these 
names,  could  give  no  reason  why  the 
thermometer  might  not  as  well  be  called 
a  phototype.  These  technical  and  sci- 
entific words  —  we  cannot  cite  an  ex- 
ception—  bear  the  precise  and  ordinary 
signification  of  the  Greek  words  from 
which  they  are  derived  or  compounded. 

A  very  limited  Greek  vocabulary,  such 
as  is  acquired  in  the  minimum  classical 
course  in  our  colleges,  suffices  to  make 
these  words  easily  intelligible,  and  thus 
to  open  to  the  student  not  only  the 
nomenclature  of  his  own  specific  sci- 
ence or  profession,  but  the  entire  range 
of  terms  in  all  the  arts  and  sciences. 
Moreover,  as  has  been  said,  the  terms 
within  this  range  are  constantly  multi- 
plying. Whole  sheaves  of  them  have 
come  into  being  within  the  memory  of 
the  writer  of  this  paper,  and  he  has 
often  seen  a  brand-new  word,  which  but 
for  the  little  of  Greek  he  knew  would 
have  puzzled  him  and  teased  his  curi- 
osity, perhaps  in  vain,  but  which  was 
its  own  prompt  interpreter.  This  in- 
rush of  Greek  will  continue  so  long  as 
classification,  invention,  and  discovery 
shall  still  be  progressive  and  aggressive ; 
for  the  Greek  furnishes  a  most  ample 
affluence  of  words  which  combine  the 
qualities  of  intelligibleness,  euphony, 
and  facility  in  the  graceful  formation  of 
compound  terms.  Apart  from  any  con- 
siderations connected  with  Greek  litera- 
ture, one  who  has  lived  in  clear  light  as 
to  so  large  and  important  a  portion  of 
our  own  language  cannot  think  with 
patience  of  any  theory  of  liberal  educa- 
tion which  should  leave  this,  else  the 
most  luminous  region  of  our  English 
vocabulary,  in  perpetual  eclipse.  If  our 
technological  schools  aim  at  making  their 
graduates  anything  more  than  very  nar- 
row specialists,  they  will  find  it  neces- 
sary to  introduce  Greek  into  their  cur- 
riculum. We  should  be  sorry  for  them 
to  dispense  with  Latin  ;  but  Greek  is 
by  far  the  more  important  of  the  two. 

We  add  yet  another  reason  for  the 
study  of  Greek  by  our  educated  classes. 
We  call  ourselves  a  Christian  people, 
and  ill  as  we  deserve  the  name,  it  never 
was  so  truly  ours  as  now,  if  we  may 
trust  the  statistics  of  the  churches  and 
benevolent  institutions  of  all  the  lead- 
ing Christian  denominations.  The  wave 
of  agnosticism,  already  refluent  in  Ger- 


The  Study  of  Greek. 


many,  and  past  its  flood  in  England, 
was  slower  and  later  in  reaching  our 
shores,  yet  shows  infallible  tokens  that 
it  has  attained  its  high- water  mark  here. 
But  for  the  self-laudation  of  those  whom 
it  lifts  from  their  feet,  thus  giving  them 
a  transient  elevation,  its  impact  here  has 
been  so  languid  and  of  so  limited  extent 
as  hardly  to  attract  the  notice  of  the 
religious  world.  For  the  greater  part 
of  our  people  the  Christian  Scriptures 
are  a  series  of  sacred  books,  and  none 
the  less  so  for  the  decline  of  bibliola- 
try.  Indeed,  the  very  writers  who  have 
been  the  most  efficient  in  their  assaults 
on  unreasoning  and  superstitious  rever- 
ence for  the  mere  letter  of  the  Bible 
are  foremost  in  their  appreciation  of  its 
paramount  and  inestimable  worth,  and 
of  its  rightful  hold  on  the  intelligent 
and  fervent  interest  of  every  mind  and 
heart.  The  Jews  train  their  sons  in 
Hebrew  for  the  sole  purpose  of  enabling 
them  to  read  their  Scriptures.  Many 
Christian  men  and  women  have  learned 
Greek  even  late  in  life,  and  at  the  ut- 
most disadvantage,  merely  in  order  to 
read  the  New  Testament  in  the  original. 
The  sacred  books  of  a  people  have  cer- 
tainly a  strong  claim  on  such  of  its  cit- 
izens as  hold  a  foremost  place  in  culture 
and  influence.  There  are  many  ques- 
tions raised  in  the  discussion  of  dogmatic 
theology,  and  many  references  and  al- 
lusions in  the  pulpit,  which  need  for 
their  clear  understanding  some  conver- 
sance with  the  Greek  of  the  New  Tes- 
tament. The  Revised  Version  is  creating 


in  the  arraignment  and  defense  of  its 
authors  an  already  voluminous  body  of 
fresh  literature,  in  which  our  principal 
reviews  and,  equally,  some  of  our  popu- 
lar newspapers  have  borne  no  inconsid- 
erable part ;  and  the  whole  ground  thus 
covered  is  well  worthy  of  the  enlight- 
ened cognizance  of  the  Christian  public, 
and  ought  to  be  within  the  easy  compre- 
hension of  a  liberally  educated  man.  In 
fine,  there  are  many  occasions  on  which 
a  person  who  has  any  interest  —  wheth- 

er on  the  score  of  intelligence,  taste,  or 
piety  —  in  Christianity  and  its  canonical 
writings  ought  to  be  glad  to  know  for 
himself,  or  to  determine  from  his  own 
best  judgment,  precisely  what  is  the 
voice  of  Scripture. 

More  than  all  else,  there  is  in  the 
New  Testament  no  little  of  the  untrans- 
latable. There  are  shades  of  meaning, 
delicate  lines  and  hues  of  pictorial  nar- 
rative, traits  of  sentiment,  evanescent 
under  the  hand  of  the  most  skillful  trans- 
lator, yet  flashing  vividly  upon  him  who 
reads  the  very  words  of  the  evangelist 
or  the  apostle.  This  is  especially  true, 
as  every  qualified  witness  will  testify, 
of  the  biographies  of  Him  who  is  his 
own  religion.  They  are  stories  that 
grow  perpetually  on  re-perusal  and  on 
close  perusal,  and  no  one  who  prizes 
them  in  the  vernacular  version  can  ever 
have  read  them  in  the  Greek  without 
being  devoutly  thankful  for  the  ability 
so  to  read  them.  If  Christianity  has, 
as  we  believe  it  has,  its  birth  in  the  bo- 
som of  Eternal  Love,  and  its  mission  co- 
eternal  with  Him  from  whom  it  came, 
there  will  always  remain  sacred  and  co- 
gent reasons  for  the  study  of  the  lan- 
guage consecrated  by  the  earliest  per- 
manent records  of  the  Divine  humanity, 
destined  to  be  the  light  and  life  of  all 
ages  and  nations. 

There  exist  exaggerated  notions  as 
to  the  time  required  for  the  study  of 
Greek.  It  has  been  repeatedly  said  and 
written  that  it  demands  the  hardest  work 
of  four  years  in  a  course  preparatory 
for  college.  This  may  have  been  seem- 
ingly true  of  one  or  two  schools  a  quar- 
ter of  a  century  ago ;  but  in  most  of 
our  classical  schools  the  entire  prepar- 
atory course  then  occupied  but  three 
years,  and  was  often  completed  in  two. 
Indeed,  at  a  still  earlier  period,  when 
school  vacations  were  merely  nominal, 
when  all  that  a  studious  boy  did  was  to 
study,  and  when  plain  living  did  more 
to  keep  students  in  vigorous  health  than 
hygienic  restrictions  and  rules  do  now, 


The  Study  of  Greek. 


it  was  no  uncommon  thing  for  a  boy 
who  had  more  brains  than  his  father  had 
money  to  fit  himself  for  college  in  a 
year.  The  requirements  then  included 
more  Greek  and  Latin  than  at  present, 
but  much  less  of  mathematics,  and  very 
little  beside,  and  a  year  then  was  prob- 
ably equivalent  to  two  years  now ;  for 
about  one  third  of  the  school  year  is 
now  taken  up  by  vacations  and  holidays, 
and  our  school-boys  are  encouraged,  or 
at  least  permitted,  to  have  not  a  few  en- 
grossing objects  and  pursuits  aside  from 
their  school-life.  In  most  of  our  good 
preparatory  schools  Greek  now  occupies 
a  portion,  by  no  means  the  principal 
portion,  of  from  two  to  three  years  ;  be- 
ing commenced  in  many  of  them  in  the 
last  quarter  (ten  weeks)  of  the  third 
year  before  entering  college.  We  have 
before  us  the  course  of  study  in  one  of 
our  principal  schools,  in  which  Greek  is 
studied  for  three  years.  The  Greek  in 
this  course  embraces  four  books  of  Xen- 
ophon's  Anabasis,  one  of  Herodotus, 
four  of  the  Iliad,  portions  of  the  Cyro- 
paedia,  and  the  Greek  Testament,  with 
exercises  for  the  last  year  and  a  half  in 
reading  at  sight  Xenophon,  Herodotus, 
and  Homer,  and  exercises  during  nearly 
the  whole  time  in  writing  Greek.  This 
is  considerably  in  advance  of  the  require- 
ment for  admission  in  any  of  our  New 
England  colleges  ;  and  the  time  spent 
in  writing  Greek  might  well  seem  ex- 
cessive and  unreasonable,  were  not  this 
exercise  so  arranged  and  conducted  as 
to  supersede  in  great  part  the  formal 
study  of  the  grammar,  and  by  enriching 
the  student's  vocabulary  to  save  much 
of  his  mechanical  toil  in  turning  over, 
the  leaves  of  his  lexicon. 

We  have  before  us  a  full  statement 
of  the  time  devoted  to  Greek  in  a  pri- 
vate school,  which  always  sends  to  col- 
lege admirably  prepared  pupils,  and 
which  has  its  clientelage  almost  wholly 
among  families  in  which  there  would  be 
no  disposition  to  shorten  the  term,  or  to 
apply  undue  stimulants  to  the  diligence, 

of  school  life.  Greek  in  this  school  is 
commenced  two  years  and  a  quarter  be- 
fore entering  college.  The  lessons  are 
from  two  to  four  each  week.  The  en- 
tire number  of  lessons  does  not  exceed 
three  hundred.  We  are  assured  on  the 
best  authority  that  little  more  than  half 
that  number  of  lessons  would  suffice  for 
a  boy  who  made  study  his  vocation,  in- 
stead of  his  a-vocation,  or  side-calling, 
secondary  to  base-ball,  military  drill,  and 
miscellaneous  amusements. 

It  must  be  borne  in  mind  that  the  les- 
sons in  Greek  in  our  good  schools  are 
not,  as  of  old,  mere  recitations,  but  what 
they  purport  to  be,  hours  of  direct  and 
positive  instruction  ;  superseding  a  con- 
siderable portion  of  the  study  formerly 
required,  and  facilitating  all  the  rest. 

It  ought,  in  this  connection,  to  be  em- 
phatically stated  that  in  the  method  of 
teaching  Greek  there  has  been  in  all  our 
best  schools  not  so  much  an  essential 
improvement  as  an  entire  revolution, 
and  one  which  must  very  soon  sweep 
the  old,  cumbrous  methods  out  of  the 
way.  The  grammar  is  now  studied,  not 
in  mass,  but  in  great  part  from  words 
and  sentences  as  they  occur  in  reading. 
The  mode  in  which  one  acquires  the 
command  of  his  vernacular  tongue  is 
copied  in  every  respect  in  which  it  can 
be  made  availing.  The  scholar  learns 
what  words  are  by  seeing  where  they 
stand  and  how  they  are  used.  For 
much  of  the  labor  of  the  lexicon  the  pu- 
pil's own  sagacity  is  substituted.  The 
Greek  tongue  is  justly  reputed  as  the 
most  copious  of  all  ancient  languages, 
and  yet  it  is  meagre  in  its  roots.  It  is 
rich  in  its  wealth  and  unequaled  power 
of  combination.  The  student  used  to 
be  suffered  to  regard  every  word  as  a 
separate  entity,  to  be  sought  by  itself  in 
the  lexicon,  without  reference  to  any 
kindred  words.  He  is  now  taught  to 
analyze  a  compound  word,  and  to  de- 
termine its  meaning  by  its  component 
parts  and  its  context.  Thus  reading  at 
sight,  which  would  formerly  have  been 


The  Study  of  Greek. 


considered  as  a  more  recondite  art  than 
Hindoo  jugglery,  is  now  made  easy,  and 
a  very  slender  vocabulary,  with  an  ac- 
tive mind,  will  enable  a  boy  to  feel 
quite  at  home  in  a  page  of  the  Anabasis, 
or  iu  one  of  Lucian's  Dialogues,  which 
he  had  never  seen  before. 

Nor  let  it  be  imagined  that  for  a  boy 
who  is  going  to  be  an  engineer,  or  an 
architect,  or  a  chemist,  the  hours  spent 
in  learning  Greek  are,  even  iu  the  utili- 
tarian-view,  so  much  lost  time.  They 
will  certainly  facilitate  his  acquisition  of 
the  more  difficult  modern  languages,  es- 
pecially of  the  German  and  its  allied 
tongues.  They  will  save  him  a  great 
deal  of  labor  in  consulting  dictionaries 
for  words  of  Greek  parentage.  They 
will  preclude  embarrassing  ignorance 
and  mortifying  blunders  as  to  terms 
which  he  ought  to  understand.  They 
will  render  the  writing  of  English  very 
much  less  toilsome,  and  thus  will  bring 
him  into  easier  relations  with  the  mem- 
bers of  his  own  profession,  and  with  the 
public  at  large. 

The  importance  of  the  modern  Eu- 
ropean tongues  has  been  urged  as  a  rea- 
son for  dropping  Greek  in  a  scientific 
or  practical  education.  With  regard  to 
these  languages,  the  great  mistake  has 
been  that  in  our  colleges  and  classical 
schools  they  have  been  studied  too  much 
in  the  way  in  which  Latin  and  Greek 
used  to  be  studied,  as  if  they  were  not 
only  dead  languages,  but  incapable  of 
being  raised  to  life.  Better  methods 
are  fast  coming  into  use.  French  and 
German  are  now  taught  as  they  might 
be  learned  in  Paris  or  Dresden.  The 
pupil  acquires  the  language  by  using  it, 
rather  than  as  a  condition  precedent  to 
using  it.  This  improved  method  is  fast 
making  its  way,  and  will  soon  become 
universal.  From  one  of  our  schools, 
second  to  none  in  its  reputation  for 
Greek,  the  pupils  now  go  to  college  ca- 
pable of  conversing  with  a  good  degree 
of  fluency  in  either  French  or  German, 
and  many  of  them  in  both ;  and  we 

doubt  whether  more  time  is  there  con- 
sumed in  Greek,  French,  and  German 
by  a  boy  who  takes  all  three  than  used 
to  be  occupied  under  the  old  method, 
and  to  much  less  advantage,  by  Greek 

There  is  one  argument  against  Greek, 
which  we  have  not  attempted  to  meet, 
because  we  have  not  known  how  to 
deal  with  it.  It  is  alleged  that  the  study 
of  Greek  is  not  only  a  waste  of  time, 
but  that  it  cramps  the  mind,  employs  it 
in  work  unsuited  to  the  development 
of  capacity  for  scientific  labor  and  for 
practical  usefulness,  and  is  a  drawback 
on  one's  success  in  other  than  literary 
pursuits.  A  charge  like  this  admits  of 
specifications,  and  ought  to  be  brought 
only  by  those  who  can  make  some  show 
of  damage.  Bat  when  a  member  in  the 
fourth  generation  of  £he  most  success- 
ful family  in  America  ascribes  to  Greek 
all  the  misfortunes  and  failures  of  his 
ancestors  and  kindred,  we  might  almost 
suspect  him  of  anti-republican  aspira- 
tions ;  for  the  only  misfortune  that  can 
be  conceived  of  in  the  history  of  that 
family  is  their  failure  to  become  a  race 
of  hereditary  monarchs.  Then  again, 
when  the  man  who,  confessedly  at  the 
head  of  his  department  of  science  in 
this  country,  has  only  his  peers  among 
the  foremost  scientific  men  in  Europe 
complains  of  having  been  weighted  down 
by  Greek  in  his  boyhood,  we  doubt 
whether  any  ambitious  youth  will  spurn 
the  weight  if  with  it  he  can  start  on  a 
career  so  very  full  of  honor.  Men  of 
this  sort  are  not  valid  witnesses,  and  we 
have  no  others.  When  the  men  who 
.  linger  in  the  outer  courts  of  science,  and 
try  in  vain  to  enter,  or  when  those  who 
in  business  or  in  political  life  are  perpet- 
ually stumbling  and  faltering,  can  show 
us  that  such  smattering  of  Greek  as  they 
have  has  been  the  insuperable  obstacle 
in  their  way,  it  will  be  a  fit  time  to  in- 
quire how  and  why. 

Fortunately  for  us,  the  experiment  of 
dispensing  with  Greek  at  the  option  of 




candidates  for  university  honors  in  the 
mathematical  and  physical  sciences  has 
been  tried  in  Germany,  and  it  has  been 
found  that  even  for  these  sciences  a  reg- 
ular classical  course,  including  Greek, 
furnishes  a  better  preparation  than  is 
attained  by  the  non-classical,  but  most 
skillfully  devised  and  ably  conducted 
curriculum  of  the  Realschulen.  Such  is 
the  almost  unanimous  testimony  of  the 
professors  in  the  Prussian  universities. 
We  could  hardly  expect  more  favorable 
results  in  this  country,  especially  when 
we  bear  in  mind  that  the  Prussian  edu- 
cational system  is  in  every  department 

thoroughly  organized,  and  administered 
by  instructors  who  have  passed  a  pre- 
scribed test ;  while  it  would  be  impossi- 
ble in  our  country,  except  by  slow  de- 
grees and  with  numberless  exceptions 
and  failures,  to  establish  a  uniform  and 
adequate  system  for  the  preliminary 
training  of  scientific  students. 

We  rest  our  case  here,  trusting  that 
we  may  have  added  some  little  weight 
of  truth  and  reason  in  behalf  of  classical 
education  as  the  best  possible  discipline 
for  scientific  study,  and  for  the  arts,  pur- 
suits, and  employments  of  liberally  edu- 
cated men. 

A.  P.  Peabody. 




THE  season  was  now  at  its  height. 
The  President  was  in  town,  alternately 
making  brief  public  appearances,  and 
being  spirited  from  house  to  house 
among  the  select  few  who  had  captured 
him,  in  a  furtive  and  costly  seclusion, 
as  if  he  had  been  some  influential  mal- 
efactor whom  it  was  desirable  to  keep 
out  of  the  way.  The  fragments  of  a 
religious  convention  and  those  of  a  po- 
litical reform  convention,  which  had  re- 
cently been  held  there,  were  still  drift- 
ing about  the  place.  Entertainments  of 
the  most  brilliant  sort  were  multiplied  to 
distraction  ;  the  lawn-tennis  tournament 
was  on  the  point  of  collecting  upon  the 
Casino  lawn  a  dense  parterre  of  beauti- 
ful women  in  ravishing  costumes ;  and 
in  fine,  the  whirl  of  gay  life,  which  was 
doomed  to  cease  m  two  or  three  weeks 
more,  made  one  think  of  a  giant  soap- 
bubble  whirling  faster  and  faster,  and 
gathering  a  wilder  glow  of  color  as  the 
instant  of  bursting  draws  nearer. 

The  collapse  of  one  adventurer  like 
Raish  Porter  was  a  mere  incident  in  the 
general  history  of  the  season's  bubble ; 
but  it  created  a  widespread  and  intense 
astonishment,  and,  coming  so  soon  after 
the  runaway  marriage,  it  swallowed  up 
the  excitement  which  had  eddied  for  a 
little  while  around  Justin  and  Vivian. 

People  were  greatly  surprised  that 
Raish  should  have  turned  out  as  he  had 
done.  And  it  is  noticeable  that  this 
matter  of  how  individuals  "  turn  out "  is 
always  a  great  mystery  to  the  world. 
The  reason  is  that  the  world  occupies 
itself  with  exteriors,  not  interiors,  of 
character ;  consequently,  when  that 
which  is  in  a  man  comes  in  due  time  to 
the  front,  the  crowd  is  puzzled  because 
he  has  "  turned  out "  to  public  view 
what  it  might  all  along  have  known  was 
there,  had  it  taken  the  trouble  to  inquire 

Mrs.  Farley  Blazer  was  a  loser  to  a 
considerable  extent  by  the  downfall  of 
her  confidential  friend,  companion,  and 
adviser.  She  was  greatly  incensed  at 
his  fiasco,  and  the  rumor  soon  came  into 
circulation  that  she  had  used  very  pro- 




fane  language  —  as  was  her  wont  on 
occasions  of  great  excitement  —  when 
news  of  the  arrest  first  reached  her. 
The  financial  injury  done  to  her,  al- 
though not  serious  in  proportion  to  the 
large  income  allowed  her  by  her  neg- 
lected and  broken-down  husband,  was 
especially  exasperating  because  she  was 
always  averse  to  parting  with  money  in 
any  way,  and  because  she  had  made  up 
her  mind,  immediately  on  Vivian's  elope- 
ment, to  purchase  Count  Fitz- Stuart  for 
her  niece  Ruth,  by  paying  off  his  debts. 
That  expense,  which  had  already  caused 
her  much  anticipatory  anguish,  yet  was 
inevitable,  now  became  a  source  of  re- 
doubled pain. 

But  it  was  Oliphant  who,  though  not 
entangled  in  the  wreck,  felt  its  imme- 
diate effects  in  the  most  tangible  way. 
Raish's  property  was  all  promptly  at- 
tached, including  the  yacht,  his  horses 
and  equipages,  and  whatever  belonged 
to  him  in  the  Craig  cottage.  The  house- 
hold came,  as  a  matter  of  course,  to  a 
dead  stop,  and  the  servants  prepared  to 
leave.  Oliphant,  however,  had  an  in- 
spiration :  he  saw  an  opportunity  to 
turn  the  situation  to  account  in  a  way 
that  captivated  his  heart.  He  engaged 
the  servants  to  remain,  and  lost  no  time 
in  striking  a  bargain  with  Mr.  Craig, 
by  which  he  agreed  to  pay  the  rent  for 
a  certain  period,  which  Raish  had  left  in 
arrear,  and  also  to  retain  the  house  un- 
til the  first  of  October,  at  an  increased 
rate,  on  condition  that  part  of  the  money 
was  to  go  to  Justin.  This  being  settled, 
he  went  again  to  Tiverton,  and  threw 
himself  upon  the  compassion  of  his 
young  friends  there.  He  was  entirely 
alone,  he  said,  and  wanted  some  one  to 
take  charge  of  the  house  and  banish  the 
reminiscences  of  Raish  which,  otherwise, 
would  haunt  him  there.  Would  they 
not  come  down  and  occupy  it  ?  All  he 
wanted  for  himself  was  his  present 
room,  and  perhaps  a  breakfast :  most  of 
the  time  he  should  be  elsewhere.  He 
represented,  modestly,  that  it  would  be 

a  great  favor  to  him,  if  they  would 

"  Ah,"  said  Justin,  with  a  tremble  of 
ready  sentiment  in  his  young  voice,  and 
putting  his  hands  on  Oliphant's  two 
shoulders,  "  if  you  were  n't  so  much  old- 
er than  I,  I  should  call  you  the  most 
delicious,  friendly  fraud  I  ever  knew. 
Of  course  we  see  through  you — don't 
we,  Vivian  ?  "  and  he  turned  to  her  for 
the  quick  corroboration  of  which  he  was 
sure.  "  But  as  long  as  it 's  a  delightful 
plan,  and  you  've  been  guilty  of  a  de- 
ception, I  should  n't  wonder  if  we  were 
to  punish  you  by  accepting  it." 

They  did  accept.  They  came  down 
that  evening  ;  and  there  in  his  old  home, 
with  his  old  piano,  Justin  made  the  keys 
warble  like  a  choir  of  birds,  and  filled 
Oliphant  with  generous  satisfaction  at 
the  pleasure  he  had  been  able  to  bestow 
and  the  gladness  that  was  given  him  in 
return.  How  like  a  dream  it  seemed ! 
Only  two  months  ago  he  had  sat  in 
the  same  place  listening  to  Justin,  and 
thinking  of  his  apparently  hopeless  pas- 
sion for  Vivian  Ware ;  and  now  she 
was  here  as  Justin's  bride.  It  was  a 
happy  omen  ;  for  at  that  time  he  had 
thought  of  Octavia,  too,  and  at  this  mo- 
ment he  was  thinking  of  her  again  ! 

It  was  several  days  since  he  had  been 
able  to  see  her,  and  he  was  resolved 
upon  going  to  High  Lawn  on  the  mor- 
row. He  wanted  to  tell  her  how  nicely 
the  two  young  people  were  provided 
for ;  he  wanted  to  tell  her  — -  but  why 
go  over  it  in  advance  ?  He  knew  per- 
fectly well  what  he  wished  to  say  ;  and 
yet,  on  reflection,  he  did  n't  know  very 
clearly.  It  eluded  him  in  the  most  sin- 
gular manner.  The  only  thing  was  to 
go  and  see  if  it  would  elude  him  in  Oc- 
tavia's  presence. 

Before  starting  out,  in  the  morning, 
he  asked  Vivian  if  sbe  had  any  message 
for  Octavia,  in  case  he  should  see  her ; 
but  doubtless  the  young  wife  would 
have  guessed  whither  he  had  gone,  with- 
out that.  And  when,  all  day,  he  did  not 




make  his  appearance,  she  and  Justin 
could  not  help  thinking  that  the  inter- 
view had  resulted  in  something  of  un- 
usual importance. 

Oliphant  went  on  foot,  and  every 
step  seemed  to  make  him  lighter  and 
more  buoyant,  instead  of  causing  effort. 
The  old  song  was  humming  itself  in  his 
brain,  for  the  first  time  iu  a  long  inter- 
val :  — 

"  An'  I  were  as  fair  as  she, 
Or  she  were  as  kind  as  I;  "  — 

and  it  had  a  new  significance  now, 
though  it  carried  him  back  to  the  day 
when  he  first  saw  Octavia.  As  he 
reached  the  small  gate  admitting  to  a 
side-path  that  led  up  to  High  Lawn,  an- 
other sound  greeted  him,  —  a  sound  from 
without.  It  was  the  jangling  chirr  of 
the  steel  chains  on  Octavia's  fleet  horses, 
and  for  a  moment  Oliphant  was  trou- 
bled by  the  idea  that  she  was  just  leav- 
ing the  house ;  but  the  next  instant  he 
perceived  that  the  carriage  was  approach- 
ing from  the  road  above.  Though  he 
could  not  see  it  through  the  intervening 
English  beeches,  he  heard  it  enter  the 
drive,  and  knew  that  it  swept  up  to  the 
door,  leaving  a  reminiscence  of  silvery 
tones  in  the  air,  which  blended  a  wintry 
suggestion  of  sleigh-bells  with  the  sum- 
mer landscape. 

He  was  exultant  that  she  should  have 
returned  so  in  the  nick  of  time  to  meet 
him ;  it  flattered  him  with  a  fancy  that 
some  instinctive  sense  of  his  coming 
had  called  her  home. 

When  he  presented  himself,  the  maid, 
with  a  confidence  that  augured  well, 
said,  "  I  think  she  is  in  ; "  then  merely 
knocked  at  the  half-open  drawing-room 
door  and  announced  his  name.  Octavia 
was  within  :  she  had  just  taken  off  her 
small,  compact  pansy  bonnet,  and  held 
it  in  one  hand  by  the  strings,  like  a  con- 
ventional shepherdess's  flower-basket. 

"  Oh,  then   you   did  n't  go   away  ! " 

she  exclaimed,  coming  forward  with  a 

dazzling  welcome  in  her  face,  and  what 

seemed  to  Oliphant  a  genuine  air  of  re- 

VOL.  LIII.  —  NO.  315.  6 

lief.  She  shook  hands  with  him  cor- 
dially. "I  had  heard  of  Mr.  Porter's 
downfall,  and  arrest,  and  all  that,"  she 
said  to  him,  rapidly;  "and  somehow  I 
did  n't  feel  sure  that  you  would  stay, 
don't  you  know  ?  I  thought  his  affairs 
might  in  some  way  affect  you,  —  might 
make  it  necessary  for  you  to  go  to  New 

"  No,  not  at  all,"  he  returned,  with 
unconscious  dignity.  "  I  had  no  con- 
nection with  them  but  the  accident  of 
being  in  the  house.  And  I  certaiuly 
should  n't  have  gone  without  letting  you 

How  much  or  how  little  meaning  he 
put  into  those  last  words  was  best  known 
to  Octavia.  She  slightly  withdrew,  as 
she  heard  them,  and  seated  herself  by 
the  table,  where  she  laid  the  minute 

"  I  came  near  missing  you,"  she  pro- 
ceeded, with  a  more  subdued  demeanor. 
"  I  have  just  this  moment  got  back. 
Did  you  see  me  driving  up?  I  went 
early  to  see  Mrs.  Chauncey  Ware." 
The  whole  truth  was  that  she  had  heard 
of  Oliphant's  taking  the  train  the  day 
before,  and  part  of  her  errand  this  morn- 
ing had  been  to  find  out  casually,  if  she 
could,  whether  he  had  gone  to  New 
York  or  not.  But  of  this  she  naturally 
said  nothing.  "  You  know,"  she  con- 
tinued, "  the  Wares  were  very  indignant 
with  — with  bothiyou  and  me  —  because 
they  thought  we  had  helped  them  to  run 
away ;  I  mean  Vivian  and  Justin.  So 
I  determined  to  go  down  there  and  ex- 

"  Do  you  think  it  was  worth  while,  if 
they  choose  to  do  us  injustice  ?  "  asked 

Octavia  looked  down,  and  blushed 
slightly.  "  I  did  n't  care  so  much  for 
myself,"  she  answered  with  hesitation. 
"  I  thought  you  would  hardly  care  to 
speak  for  yourself,  but  that  I  might 
speak  of  you.  Are  you  sorry  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  can't  be,  since  you  were  tak- 
ing that  trouble  on  my  account."  If 




she  had  glanced  up  she  would  have  seen 
that  Oliphant  was  looking  at  her  very- 
gen  tly. 

"  And  I  told  Mrs.  Ware  that  we  cer- 
tainly sympathized  with  the  young  peo- 
ple," she  went  on,  eagerly,  "and  had 
hoped  we  should  see  them  united." 

"  She  '11  be  convinced  of  that,"  Oli- 
phant remarked,  rather  defiantly,  "when 
she  hears  what  I  have  done."  He  went 
on,  then,  to  tell  her  about  it. 

Octavia  gave  him  an  arch  look  ;  there 
was  a  sparkle  of  approbation  in  her  eye, 
and  her  lips  were  touched  with  a  mirth- 
ful sympathy.  "  Oh,  yes,"  she  cried, 
"now  you've  injured  yourself  with 
Mrs.  Ware,  beyond  recovery  !  I  'm  so 

"  Oh,  that 's  cruel  —  rejoicing  in  my 
misfortune,"  said  Oliphant. 

"  I  did  n't  mean  that"  Octavia  an- 
swered. "  You  know :  for  the  sake  of 
Vivian  and  Justin."  And  she  laughed 
at  her  mistake,  so  brightly  and  gayly 
that  Oliphant  felt  he  had  never  until 
then  been  upon  such  safe  and  easy  terms 
with  her. 

"  Then  I  'm  not  irretrievably  ruined 
with  you  and  Mrs.  Craig,"  he  said  con- 
tentedly. "  By  the  way,  Vivian  sent 
her  love  to  you." 

He  failed  in  trying  to  utter  this  care- 
lessly. A  deeper  chord  stirred  in  his 
voice,  and  Octavia  felt  that  it  was  the 
forerunner  of  something  momentous. 

"  Thanks  ;  and  please  give  her  mine, 
Mr.  Oliphant,"  she  returned,  with  down- 
cast eyes.  There  was  still  a  pure,  fine 
color  in  her  cheeks.  She  turned  half 
away,  to  touch  and  smell  some  flowers 
upon  the  table ;  and  it  seemed  as  if 
while  she  inhaled  their  fragrance  the 
glow  of  their  beauty  was  reflected  in  her 

He  was  about  to  speak,  when  that 
sense  of  knowing  her  so  well  and  being 
on  easy  terms,  which  had  just  encour- 
aged him,  departed  ;  and  he  felt  that 
he  hardly  knew  her  at  all.  He  beheld 
her  loveliness  ;  he  could  sit  there  and 

carry  on  ordinary  conversation,  as  her 
acquaintance  or  friend  ;  but  what  pre- 
sumption had  brought  him  to  suppose 
that  he  could  ever  go  below  that  fair 
surface  ?  He  experienced  the  terror 
which  is  not  fear,  but  awe,  that  all  fine- 
ly strung  natures  are  subject  to,  the 
moment  they  surrender  to  a  great  emo- 

"  Mrs.  Gifford,"  he  began,  after  try- 
ing to  steady  himself  against  it,  "  do 
you  know  "what  has  happened  to  me, 
while  we  have  been  watching  those  two 
young  hearts  —  those  friends  of  ours?" 
If  a  clear  glance,  free  from  all  flaw 
of  suspicion,  could  have  disarmed  him, 
he  would  have  been  disconcerted  then  ; 
for  she  responded  with  just  that  sort  of 
glance,  and  the  unperturbed  expectancy 
of  a  child. 

Perhaps  it  was  not  very  certain,  in 
Oliphant's  mind  whether  or  not  she 
made  any  definite  answer ;  but  the 
chance  was  his  again  to  speak. 

"  I  have  grown  to  love  you,"  he  said, 
swiftly,  with  suppressed  fervor.  And 
all  the  while  the  strange  awe  of  that 
master-passion  was  upon  him  and  con- 
trolled him. 

Did  she,  too,  feel  it  ?  For  an  instant 
she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 
When  she  took  them  away,  she  was 
pale  ;  the  magic  of  the  roses  had  van- 
ished from  her  cheeks,  and  her  appar- 
ent calm  was  maintained  with  difficulty. 
"You,  Mr.  Oliphant?"  There  was 
a  trembling  hesitancy,  a  bewitching  se- 
ductiveness, in  her  tone.  "  Ah,  why  ? 
And  how  was  I  to  know  ?  " 

"  One  does  n't  find  a  reason  for  love, 
Mrs.  Gifford.  I  only  know  that  it  is 
here  in  me,  and  is  stronger  than  I  am, 
and  that  you  created  it.  May  I  not 
bring  back  to  you  what  you  have 
created  ?  " 

Like  a  woman  luxuriating  in  some 
delicious  melody,  familiar  but  long  un- 
heard, Octavia  reclined  slightly  in  her 
fastidiously  patterned  chair,  drinking  in 
what  he  said. 




"  Is  it  possible,"  she  murmured  soft- 
ly, "  that  I  have  been  the  cause. of  this 

—  in  so  short  a  time,  Mr.  Oliphant  ?  " 

"  But  consider  how  rapidly  we  came 
to  know  each  other,"  he  urged,  "  and 
how  much  has  happened  in  that  time." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  mused  aloud,  sympa- 
thetically. "  It  has  been  very  swift,  and 

"  More  than  that,"  he  returned.  "  It 
has  changed  the  whole  current  of  my 
life  :  I  know  what  it  is,  again,  to  be 
happy.  We  have  had  the  same  thoughts 
and  the  same  interests,  and  everything 
has  seemed  to  bring  us  into  closer  rela- 
tion, all  the  time.  Have  n't  you  found 
something  in  all  this,  too,  Mrs.  Gifford 

—  and  something  that  makes  what  I  tell 
you  now  only  natural  ?  " 

"  Our  friendship  has  given  me  a  great 
deal  of  pleasure,"  said  Octavia,  still  en- 
joying the  luxury  of  receptiveness. 

"  But  it  is  time  for  it  to  end  ! "  he 
declared,  boldly.  "  With  me  it  has 
ended,  because  love  has  begun.  Oh,  I 
know,  Mrs-  Gifford,  I  have  little  enough 
to  offer.  I  'm  not  rich,  and  I  'm  not 
brilliant  or  distinguished ;  but  if  I  were, 
those  things,  after  all,  would  n't  be  the 
chief.  I  could  only  offer  you  myself 
and  my  honest  devotion,  as  I  do  now." 

While  he  spoke  he  had  risen  ;  and 
there  he  stood  with  hands  clasped  tight 
together  —  a  figure  so  much  stronger 
than  his  words,  so  frank  and  determined 
yet  reverent,  that  Octavia  became  aware 
of  having  underestimated  the  force  of 
which  he  was  capable.  She  nerved  her- 

"  You  make  too  little  of  your  merit, 
Mr.  Oliphant.  It  is  not  a  small  thing 
to  offer  sincerely  what  you  do.  But 
why  choose  me  ?  Why  am  I  more 
worthy  of  it  than  some  one  else  ?  " 

"Why?"  echoed  Oliphant,  with  an 
intonation  that  bordered  on  a  wondering 
laugh.  "  Because  there  can't  be  any 
one  else,  beside  you  !  How  can  you 
think  so  for  a  moment  ?  " 

"  I  could  scarcely  help  the  question," 

she  answered.  "  I  was  only  thinking 
how  easily  there  might  be  some  spirit 
much  younger  and  fresher  than  mine  — 
some  one  who  could  give  you  all  that 
your  devotion  would  deserve.  Consider, 
Mr.  Oliphant :  is  there  no  one  like  that, 
whom  you  know  ?  "  Josephine  was  in 
her  mind  ;  and,  while  she  flattered  her- 
self that  she  was  giving  Josephine  a 
chance,  she  was  really  extracting  the 
last  drop  of  satisfaction  from  Oliphant's 

"  It  is  a  torture  to  me  even  to  have 
you  suggest  such  a  thing,"  he  declared, 
with  vehemence.  "  Do  you  imagine 
that  I  have  looked  about  me  deliberate- 
ly, and  made  my  choice  by  a  cold  calcu- 
lation ?  My  sentiment  for  you  is  spon- 
taneous, and  I  had  hoped  that  you 
might  have  the  same  towards  me.  But 
you  hesitate  and  reflect  and  question. 
...  If  it  is  not  spontaneous,  if  it  re- 
quires an  effort "... 

"  You  misunderstand  me,"  Octavia 
hastened  to  assure  him,  though  speaking 
quite  low.  Her  hold  upon  her  own  pur- 
pose was  weakening ;  she  feared  that  he 
might  drift  away  from  her.  "I  like 
you  very  much  —  as  a  friend." 

It  did  not  surprise  her,  nor  seem  at 
all  ridiculous,  to  see  him  drop  on  one 
knee  before  her.  "  You  will  care  for 
me  in  the  other  way !  "  he  cried,  taking 
her  hand.  "  I  'm  not  ashamed  to  ask  your 
compassion.  You  know  my  wretched 
loneliness,  the  emptiness  of  my  life ;  but 
I  have  held  myself  together  and  existed 
—  I  never  knew  for  what,  until  I  met 
you.  But  now  that  I  have  allowed  my- 
self this  hope  of  you,  if  it  is  taken 
away  my  loneliness  and  wretchedness 
will  be  twice  what  they  were  before.  I 
am  dependent  on  you." 

"  You  are  sure  you  have  not  deceived 
yourself  ? "  she  asked  in  long-drawn 
tones,  that  intimated  a  refinement  of 
yearning  rather  than  any  doubt  or  re- 

"  No,  a  thousand  times !  "  he  ex- 
claimed, with  joyous  energy.  "  I  ask 




you  to  be  my  wife,  my  veritable  wife  — 
the  woman  I  love  with  a  strength  be- 
yond anything  I  ever  felt  before  !  You 
will  consent,  Octavia?" 

For  the  first  time  he  had  uttered, 
without  prefix  or  addition,  her  name  ; 
that  strange,  arbitrary,  yet  coveted  pass- 
word to  the  closest  intimacy,  which  is 
so  easily  seized,  but  so  inoperative  un- 
less held  by  the  right  person. 

He  fixed  his  eyes  upon  her,  and  she 
gave  back  his  gaze  unfalteringly.  I 
don't  think  she  was  certain,  even  then, 
whether  she  would  accept  or  reject  him. 
For  a  moment  she  permitted  him  all  the 
sweetness  of  a  realized  conquest  :  he  be- 
lieved that  he  had  won  her.  He  saw  the 
unwonted  flaming  in  her  eyes  ;  a  warm 
light  that  alternately  advanced  and  re- 
treated. As  it  came  forward  —  that  sin- 
gular light — and  was  concentrated  on 
him,  it  seemed  to  be  the  glow  of  love. 
When  it  retreated,  it  grew  uncertain  ;  it 
was  something  else. 

He  rose,  drawing  her  hand  along 
with  his,  as  if  to  lift  her  also  and  clasp 
her  to  him.  She,  too,  began  to  rise,  but 
as  she  did  so  she  released  her  hand ; 
the  brilliance  in  her  eyes  retired,  and 
yet  filled  them  with  an  illumination  the 
whole  character  of  which  was  changed. 
She  had  recalled  her  determination.  She 
remembered  the  hour  when,  in  that  very 
room,  amid  all  those  soft  colors  and  those 
dainty  surroundings,  she  had  undergone 
an  agony  of  which  Oliphant  had  been 
the  immediate  agent. 

Unaccountable,  unnatural,  though  we 
may  think  it,  the  impulse  of  revenge 
which  that  crisis  had  excited  had  gone 
on  persisting  through  her  mutations  of 
feeling  about  Oliphant,  and  revived  at 
this  instant,  overcoming  every  other 
consideration.  There  the  mood  was,  at 
any  rate  ;  and  Oliphant  had  to  take  its 
consequences,  no  matter  how  little  logic 
or  mercy  it  had  in  it. 

"  No  !  "  she  said,  abruptly.  "  I  don't 
consent.  T  cannot." 

"  Not   consent  ?     How  can  you   say 

that,  now  ?  And  why  ?  What  has  hap- 
pened, to  change  you  from  a  moment 
ago  ?  " 

"  I  'm  not  changed  :  I  am  steadfast," 
answered  Octavia,  almost  fiercely,  toss- 
ing her  head  slightly  as  though  to  shake 
off  some  imaginary  restraining  touch. 
"  I  never  meant  to  take  you  !  I  have 
given  no  promise  —  not  the  least  word." 

"  Then  why  did  you  let  me  go  so  far  ? 
Why  have  you  gone  so  far  yourself  ?  " 
Oliphant  demanded,  in  sudden,  fiery  re- 
monstrance. "  Why  could  n't  you  have 
told  me  so  at  once  ?  " 

"  I  might  have,"  she  retorted,  with  a 
light,  icy  laugh.  "  But  it  would  have 
cut  short  an  agreeable  acquaintance.  It 
was  n't  I  who  made  any  advance,  Mr. 
Oliphant.  Ton  were  the  active  one. 
And  might  I  inquire  why  you  have  gone 
so"  far,  if  you  don't  like  the  inevitable 
result  ?  " 

"  Because,"  Oliphant  flung  back,sting- 
ingly  —  "  because  I  trusted  you.  Be- 
cause I  was  unsuspicious,  and  took  it 
for  granted  that  you  had  a  sense  of  hon- 
or. Because  I  was  candid  with  you 
from  the  start,  and  placed  myself,  just 
as  I  was,  unreservedly  in  your  hands." 

"  At  your  time  of  life  you  should 
have  known  better,"  said  Octavia,  with 
a  mocking  compassion.  "  Is  it  for  a 
woman  always  to  take  care  of  a  man, 
or  of  all  men,  and  protect  them  from  dis- 
tress, as  well  as  herself  ?  I  thought  you 
would  understand,  of  course,  that  I  might 
be  drawn  on  by  the  charm  of  such  per- 
fect attention  as  yours  ;  naturally,  I 
might  continue  to  receive  it  as  long  as 
you  thought  it  worth  while  to  give  it." 

"  Then  you  have  done  everything  de- 
liberately ?  "  he  replied,  inferentially. 

"  Why  not,  Mr.  Oliphant  ?  "  She 
made  a  lazy,  waving  gesture  with  one 
hand.  "  It  gave  me  pleasure.  Did  n't 
it  you,  too  ?  " 

"  0  my  God !  0  Octavia ! "  he  moaned, 
unthinkingly  bringing  together  in  speech 
the  two  powers  —  one  divine,  the  other 
how  sadly  human  !  —  that  controlled  his 




fate  at  this  juncture.  "  And  is  this  the 
end  ?  "  He  appeared  dazed,  for  an  in- 
stant ;  then  a  fresh  glow  of  hope  came 
to  him.  "  I  don't  know  why  it  is,"  he 
said,  half  distraught,  "but  it  seems  to 
me  that  you  are  hardly  in  earnest.  You 
will  reconsider.  You  had  some  reason 
for  wanting  to  test  me ;  but  you  don't 
mean  all  that  you  have  said.  For 
Heaven's  sake,  tell  me  that  you  don't! 
You  saw  what  was  coming ;  you  could 
so  easily  have  sent  me  away ;  but  you 
did  not  do  it,  and  you  gave  me  so  much 

Octavia  watched  him  as  impassively 
as  she  might  have  done  if  he  had  been 
a  curious  automaton.  One  arm  rested 
on  the  holly  mantel,  and  her  head  leaned 
towards  it :  from  her  pallid  face  the  eyes 
shone  with  a  still  coldness  only  less  hard 
than  that  of  her  diamond  ear-drops, 
which  Oliphant  now  thought  of  always 
as  the  petrifaction  of  tears ;  and  her 
long  dress  had  swept  round  her  in  heavy 
folds  that  suggested  a  serpentine  coil,  so 
that  she  suddenly  portrayed  herself  to 
him  as  a  sorceress  rising  in  the  shape 
of  woman  from  a  lower  half  that  was 

"You  have  deceived  yourself,  Mr. 
Oliphant,"  she  answered,  sweetly  and 
calmly.  "  A  few  weeks  ago  we  were 
strangers,  but  peculiar  circumstances 
brought  us  together.  You  are  trying  to 
take  advantage  of  them  —  that 's  all." 

She  saw  an  acute  pain  leap  out  and 
flood  his  face,  as  it  were,  altering  it  in- 
stantaneously. There  is  such  a  thing  as 
spiritual  bloodshed.  A  changed  light  of 
suffering  flows  out  over  the  countenance 
of  one  who  has  been  stabbed  by  words, 
as  distinctly  and  with  an  effect  as  terri- 
ble as  that  of  the  scarlet  life-tide  which 
gushes  from  a  physical  wound. 

"  I  must  apologize  humbly  for  my 
mistake,"  Oliphant  said.  "  It  was  a 
great  oversight."  He  cast  about  him 
briefly,  with  a  despair  that  accelerated 
into  frenzy.  "  How  dreadful  it  must  be 
for  you,"  he  cried,  "  to  be  afflicted  with 

this  sort  of  mistake  !  But  if  you  have 
done  as  I  begin  to  think  you  have ;  if 
you  have  only  trifled  ;  if  you  have  gone 
on  purposely  to  inflict  punishment  on  a 
sincere  affection,  then  I  can  tell  you 
this,  Mrs.  Gifford  —  you  never  loved, 
and  you  don't  know  what  love  is !  But, 
no  matter  what  you  have  done,  1  love 
you  still,  with  a  senseless  infatuation, 
and,  as  I  began  by  being  frank,  I  can 
say  to  you  now,  if  it  gives  you  any  sat- 
isfaction, that  the  blow  you  have  given 
me  is  bitter  —  bitterer  than  death ! " 

He  turned  to  go  to  the  door. 

Octavia  did  not  yet  relent.  "  Yes,  it 
may  be  bitter,"  she  said,  keenly  ;  "  but 
other  men  have  been  rejected  before 
now,  and  it  was  bitter  to  them,  too,  I 

Instantly,  the  whole  scheme  of  her 
vengeance  became  plain  to  him,  then. 
He  flashed  one  look  at  her,  that  told  her 
so,  and  made  her  aware  of  her  littleness. 

This,  and  her  woman's  desire  still  to 
be  thought  well  of  —  to  do  a  wrong,  yet 
somehow  be  assured  that  she  was  in  the 
right  —  dissolved  her  firmness.  She 
started  from  her  contemplative  attitude. 

"  What  have  I  done  ?  Oh,  what  have 
I  said,  Mr.  Oliphant,  that  I  ought  not 
to  ?  If  I  have  caused  you  pain,  will 
you  not  forgive  me  ?  " 

Perhaps  the  dumb  animal  that  we 
strike,  in  our  power,  forgives  ;  but  its 
piteous  eyes  accuse  us  still.  For  two 
or  three  moments,  Oliphant  remained 
mute  ;  and  the  sight  of  him  as  he  was 
then  filled  Octavia  with  horror  of  her- 
self. His  lips  were  steady,  and  not  a 
muscle  of  his  face  moved,  yet  every 
heart-beat  seemed  to  send  a  pulsation  of 
anguish  across  it. 

"  Forgive  ?  "  he  repeated  at  length, 
•with  something  like  contempt  for  an 
idle  question.  "  Your  request  does  me 
honor,  Mrs.  Gifford.  Of  course,  it 's  a 
man's  proudest  prerogative  to  forgive." 

A  grim,  curt  laugh  escaped  him,  and 
he  made  his  way  quickly  out  of  the 






Oliphant's  most  poignant  anguish  as- 
sailed him  after  he  had  left  Octavia. 
He  smarted  with  exasperation  at  the  ab- 
solute rebuff  he  had  received ;  but,  be- 
yond that,  and  still  more  sharply,  he 
writhed  under  a  sense  of  the  weakness 
which  had  made  it  possible  to  expose 
himself  to  such  humiliation  and  despair, 
for  the  sake  of  a  mere  fatuous  illusion, 
a  baseless  dream,  that  had  cost  him  all 
his  peace  of  mind  and  his  slowly  ac- 
quired resignation  to  circumstances. 

He  was  not  pesigned,  now,  you  may 
believe.  There  was  a  snapping  and  a 
tingling  in  his  veins,  all  over  his  body  ; 
his  brain  was  tortured  by  an  insuffer- 
able heat.  It  is  no  exaggeration  to  say 
that  invisible  furies  seemed  to  accom- 
pany him  and  lash  him  with  their  whips, 
as  he  went  along ;  for  this  Oliphant, 
beneath  the  peaceful,  proper,  and  emi- 
nently modern  blankness  of  his  outward 
man,  carried  capacities  for  the  utmost 
stress  of  emotion. 

When  he  reached  the  gate  of  the 
drive  he  found  it  impossible  to  go  to- 
wards the  town.  A  wrathful,  unqual- 
ified disgust  for  Newport  had  taken  pos- 
session of  him :  he  felt  that  his  whole 
sympathy  with  the  place  had  been  a  fac- 
titious and  temporary  one,  and  had  sud- 
denly fallen  away  from  him.  There  was 
something  false  in  the  life ;  there  was 
something  false  in  Octavia  :  it  all  hung 
together.  He  walked  away  blindly  to- 
wards the  long,  rolling  moorland  that 
lay  between  High  Lawn  and  the  ocean  ; 
he  leaped  a  fence,  and  strode  on  through 
the  midst  of  a  light,  gathering  fog,  — 
alone  and  miserable,  yet  glad  to  have 
his  misery  to  himself.  It  was  a  region 
of  low,  rough-featured  hills,  or  gradual 
swells,  with  ridges  of  gray  rock  pricking 
their  way  through  the  surface  here  and 
there,  and  showing  in  their  spiny  course 

like  the  dorsal  fins  of  some  impossible 
subterrene  sort  of  fish.  It  was  a  region 
bleak,  barren,  and  forsaken,  the  sight  of 
which  accorded  with  his  wretched  state 
of  mind.  Wandering  on,  he  came  at 
last  to  where  he  could  look  out  upon  the 
ocean,  close  by  that  spot  where  he  and 
Octavia  had  gone  down  together  to  the 
Pirate's  Cave  ;  and  there  he  heard  the 
strange  variations  of  an  alarum  from 
the  steam  fog-horn  at  Beaver  Tail,  which 
blew  its  colossal  goblin  tones  mysteri- 
ously through  the  pale,  shrouding  vapor 
that  overhung  everything  around  him. 
Though  meant  as  a  warning,  to  him 
it  brought  temptation  :  it  was  like  the 
unearthly  voice  of  an  evil  spirit,  calling 
him  on  to  he  knew  not  what.  Then, 
abruptly,  the  fog  lified  a  little,  and 
revealed  the  patient,  waiting  sea :  the 
thought  of  refuge  and  surcease  from 
grief  filled  his  mind.  Yes,  that  was  the 
meaning  of  the  temptation  :  the  weird 
voice  through  the  mist  was  inviting  him 
to  suicide.  Oliphant  was  not  a  swim- 
mer, and  one  plunge  from  that  rocky 
ledge  by  the  cave,  where  he  had  held 
his  earlier  memorable  conversation  with 
Octavia,  would  have  meant,  for  him, 
speedy  and  painless  death.  Although 
naturally  religious,  he  was  not  formally 
so,  and  had  no  scruple  on  that  account 
against  voluntary  death  ;  but  he  despised 
the  weak  violence  of  suicide,  in  a  healthy 
being,  both  as  a  cowardly  thing  and  as 
an  unfit  interference  with  natural  laws, 
more  shocking  than  the  most  hideous 
result  of  those  laws.  All  the  greater 
was  his  horror  now,  when  the  desire  to 
end  his  life  began  to  fasten  itself  upon 
him.  He  struggled  hard  with  the  fear- 
ful thought;  but  he  did  not  dare  stay 
where  it  assailed  him  in  such  palpable 
shape.  He  faced  about,  and  walked 
swiftly  across  the  rough  downs  again, 
this  time  making  for  the  town  ;  while 
the  horn,  which  quavered  incessantly 
up  and  down  upon  two  hoarse  and  lam- 
entable tones,  hooted  after  him  in  evil 




Frequently  he  paused,  or  sat  down 
on  some  knoll  or  rock,  and  lost  himself 
in  undefined  revery,  or  sheer  vacancy 
of  numbness  and  desolation.  He  never 
knew  quite  how  he  passed  the  day ;  but 
he  found  that  it  was  near  dark  when  he 
came  along  Bellevue  Avenue,  on  the 
way  home.  Just  by  Touro  Park  he 
suddenly  encountered  Roger  Deering, 
and  was  surprised  by  it  because  he  had 
not  known  that  his  cousin  was  in  New- 
port. They  both  stopped  for  a  rapid 
exchange  of  greetings,  but  both  were 
too  preoccupied  to  notice  at  the  time 
what  recurred  to  them  later.  Roger 
was  red-faced,  short-haired,  restless  as 
usual,  but  there  was  something  about 
him  that  made  him  look  a  changed  man  ; 
and  he  afterwards  had  a  curious  impres- 
sion that  Oliphant's  hair  had  grown 
gray,  but  discovered  that  it  was  only 
that  Oliphant  looked  so  much  older. 

"  When  did  you  come  ?  "  asked  Oli- 

"  Only  to-day.  Little  Effie  is  very 
ill.  I  've  just  been  again  to  look  for  the 

"  Ah,"  said  Oliphant  vaguely.  "  What 
is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Diphtheria,"  said  Roger.  The  re- 
ply left  no  definite  effect  on  Oliphant's 
mind  ;  and  the  two  men  parted  nervous- 
ly, in  haste,  taking  opposite  directions. 

Justin  and  his  wife  were  waiting  din- 
ner for  their  friend  ;  and,  among  other 
blissful  little  diversions  of  talk,  they 
chatted  about  Oliphant.  His  long  ab- 
sence convinced  them  that  he  had  made 
his  offer,  which  they  were  expecting,  to 
Octavia,  and  had  been  successful ;  but 
they  allowed  themselves  some  good-na- 
tured laughter  at  having,  in  their  own 
case,  got  so  far  ahead  of  those  older  lov- 
ers. At  last,  when  they  heard  the  click 
of  Oliphant's  key  in  the  hall  door,  Jus- 
tin hurried  out  to  meet  him,  but  shrank 
back  on  seeing  how  haggard  the  widow- 
er was. 

"  You  look  ill,"  Justin  said,  anxious- 
ly. "  You  have  tired  yourself  out,  somt 

way,  have  n't  you  ?  What  can  we 

Oliphant  laid  down  his  hat,  and 
seemed  unable  to  speak,  for  a  moment. 
He  moved  unsteadily.  "A  glass  of 
wine,  please,"  he  presently  answered. 
"  I  am  exhausted  —  have  had  nothing 
to  eat  since  morning." 

The  wine  refreshed  him,  and  he  soon 
joined  the  young  couple,  at  dinner ;  but 
he  was  very  grava  and  absent-minded. 
The  only  thing  of  importance  that  he 
said  was,  "  I  fear  I  shall  have  to  leave 
you  very  shortly,  Craig.  1  must  go  to 
New  York  —  yes,  complications  have 
arisen  that  make  it  necessary.  I  will 
explain  it  all,  by  and  by.  Nothing  to 
be  alarmed  at.  Meanwhile,  you  under- 
stand, I  shall  keep  everything  going 
here,  just  the  same,  of  course  ;  and  it 
will  oblige  me  if  you  and  Mrs.  Craig 
will  keep  an  eye  on  it  for  me." 

He  could  not  inform  them  definitely 
when  he  should  leave  ;  in  fact,  he  had 
not  yet  really  formed  any  clear  plan. 
But  the  events  of  the  following  two  or 
three  days  settled  this  for  him. 

The  next  morning  he  was  at  first 
uncertain  whether  he  had  dreamed  of 
meeting  Roger,  or  had  actually  seen 
him  ;  but  as  the  fact  became  clear  to 
him,  he  remembered  that  something  had 
been  said  of  Effie's  illness  :  so  he  went 
down  to  the  Deerings'  small  cottage,  to 
make  inquiry  about  it.  Great  were  the 
astonishment  and  concern  with  which 
he  learned  that  the  child  was  very  dan- 
gerously attacked,  and  that  the  doctor 
already  considered  her  situation  critical. 

"  I  'm  more  sorry  than  I  can  tell  you," 
said  Oliphant  to  Roger.  "  But  at  least 
it 's  fortunate  that  you  are  here." 

"  I  was  called  by  telegraph,"  Roger 
answered,  in  an  inert,  hopeless  tone. 
"  But  what  can  I  do,  now  I  'm  here  ? 
It  is  these  fatal  unsanitary  conditions 
that  have  done  the  harm  ;  and  as  for  us, 
we  are  helpless  —  at  the  mercy  of  the 
disease,  if  it  has  any  mercy.  Ah,  if  we 
bad  only  not  come  to  Newport !  " 



Oliphant  started  at  the  reproduction, 
in  those  words,  of  the  thought  which 
was  passing  through  his  own  mind  with 
regard  to  himself. 

"  Well,  old  man,  let 's  try  to  keep 
up  hope,"  he  said,  forlornly  seeking  to 
throw  some  cheer  into  his  words,  yet 
knowing  that  he  failed  dismally. 

"  Yes,"  said  Roger.  He  looked  wan- 
ly at  his  cousin,  with  an  effort  to  ex- 
press gratitude  by  his  look.  "  But  some- 
how, Eugene,  I  feel  pretty  sure  that  I 
shall  never  feel  those  little  arms  around 
my  neck  again." 

Roger  moved  suddenly  towards  the 
window,  leaned  one  arm  upon  the  sash, 
and  bent  his  head  low,  as  if  gazing  at- 
tentively out  of  the  window.  He  was 
really  sobbing. 

Oliphant  recalled  how,  not  many  days 
before,  he  had  been  with  Mary  Deering 
and  her  baby  daughter,  when  Effie  was 
commanded,  for  some  reason,  to  go  out 
of  the  room.  "  What  because  ?  "  asked 
the  little  toddling  girl,  beginning  to 
pucker  her  lips  ;  and  he  had  laughed  at 
the  phrase,  which  was  a  frequent  one 
with  her ;  and  the  mother,  being  equal- 
ly smitten  by  it,  had  caught  up  Effie, 
cuddled  and  embraced  her,  and  sent  her 
away  with  a  smile  of  perfect  content- 
ment on  her  tiny,  roseate  features. 
"  What  because  ?  "  He  fancied  he  heard 
the  words  at  this  instant,  pronounced  in 
her  sweet,  wavering  treble,  with  just  a 
suspicion  of  innocent  protest  in  it ;  and 
it  was  strange  how  they  answered  to  the 
sad  wonderment  in  himself,  at  the  mis- 
ery that  had  befallen  him  and  the  awful 
suspense  in  which  he  beheld  his  cousins 
placed.  But  there  was  no  watchful 
motherly  power  that  could  come  to  the 
relief  of  any  of  them,  and  dissipate  their 

"  Of  course  she  is  conscious,"  he  haz- 
arded, hoping  in  some  way  to  relieve 
the  father.  "  She  knew  you  when  you 
arrived,  did  n't  she  ?  " 

Roger  roused  himself,  and  spoke 
firmly,  though  his  eyes  were  moist : 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  she  said  '  Papa,'  once.  I  be- 
lieve they  are  always  conscious." 

That  word  "  they,"  relegating  her 
to  a  general  class,  in  a  region  some- 
where beyond  the  reach  of  human  help ; 
recognizing  her  as  already  caught  up 
into  the  arms  of  God  —  to  be  borne 
away  or  restored,  who  could  tell?  — 
made  Oliphant  quiver  with  a  new  con- 
sciousness of  the  poor  fellow's  terrible 
position.  "  I  do  hope,  Roger,"  he  said, 
"  if  there  's  anything  I  can  do,  you  '11 
let  me  know.  Mary  must  n't  wear  her- 
self out." 

"  She  will  never  leave  Effie,  Eugene," 
Roger  replied.  "  Did  I  tell  you  she 
was  up  all  night?  Never  mind,  my 
dear  fellow.  It  is  hard  for  you  that 
you  can't  help  us,  I  know  ;  but  —  I  will 
send  for  you  if — if  there  is  anything 
of  importance." 

Oliphant  could  not  trust  himself  to 
stay  any  longer,  then.  "  I  shall  come 
again  this  evening,"  he  said  hurriedly, 
and  took  his  departure. 

The  voiceless  contest  went  on  at  the 
little  cottage  all  day.  Even  Clarence 
was  subdued ;  he  crept  unobtrusively 
about  the  house,  and  did  not  know  what 
to  make  of  the  situation,  except  that  the 
world  began  to  appear  to  him  a  very 
different  sort  of  place  from  what  he 
had  supposed  it.  During  the  afternoon 
hours  the  usual  crush  and  sparkle  of 
the  driving  throng  filled  Bellevue 
Avenue.  In  the  quiet  of  this  interior, 
Mary  could  hear  the  genteel  rumble 
and  patter  of  the  horses  and  carriages 
not  far  away :  the  parade  of  Anglo- 
maniacs  and  distorted  grooms,  of  beam- 
ing beauties  and  insolently  handsome 
young  men  and  high-stepping  steeds, 
was  in  full  progress.  But  to  the  anx- 
ious mother  the  thought  of  that  specta- 
cle had  lost  all  its  glamour  ;  the  whole 
concourse,  indeed,  assumed  to  her  fancy 
the  likeness  of  a  grotesquely  pompous 
funeral  train. 

Night  came,  and  still  there  was  the 
same  scene  in  the  room  where  Effie  lay: 




a  childish  form  prostrate  on  the  bed, 
feverish  and  suffering,  with  golden  hair 
spreading  at  random  over  the  pillow  — 
the  face  already  grown  singularly  ma- 
ture with  a  knowledge  of  the  awful  pos- 
sibilities of  pain ;  and  three  figures  — 
the  mother,  the  father,  and  the  nurse 
—  that  went  and  came  often,  with  noise- 
less, imperceptible  movements,  minister- 
ing continually,  and  uttering  words  of 
soothing  that  could  not  be  replied  to. 
For  the  little  thing  was  now  scarcely 
able  to  speak,  and  had  all  that  she  could 
do  to  breathe. 

Atlee  had  called  during  the  day,  and 
had  been  informed,  at  the  door,  of  the 
illness.  Now  he  came  again,  early  in  the 
evening ;  but  he  saw  no  one  excepting 
the  servant,  who  reported  his  coming, 
after  he  had  gone,  to  Roge'r  and  Mary, 
just  then  resting  for  a  few  minutes  in 
another  room.  On  the  mention  of  his 
name,  husband  and  wife  gazed  silently 
at  each  other,  and  significantly.  As  yet, 
no  discussion  had  been  raised  between 
them  regarding  Atlee.  and  of  course  they 
said  not  a  word  at  this  juncture  ;  but 
Mary  Deering  sent  up  a  brief,  discon- 
nected, unspoken  prayer  to  heaven,  for 
pardon  of  the  folly  which  seemed  now 
almost  too  senseless  to  require  pardon. 
She  understood  so  little  of  Providence 
that  she  considered  her  present  trial  as 
a  direct  personal  punishment  for  the  ap- 
parent wrong  she  had  done  Roger  ;  and 
she  imagined  that  a  passionate  inward 
avowal  of  her  misdemeanor  might  be 
answered  by  the  saving  of  her  child. 

Oliphant  and  Justin  arrived  later ; 
and  the  former  settled  himself  to  wait 
below  throughout  the  night,  in  case  he 
should  be  needed.  Hour  after  hour,  in 
the  room  above,  the  scene  continued 
unchanged,  except  that  for  a  long  time 
the  doctor  was  there,  observing,  think- 
ing, issuing  a  few  directions,  and  at  last 
going  away  without  imparting  any  hope. 
A  medicinal  pastil  was  burning  slowly 
on  a  little  side-table ;  the  air  of  the 
room  could  not  be  freed  from  a  certain 

deadly  closeness ;  the  three  figures  con- 
tinued at  their  post,  with  a  still,  con- 
centrated energy,  a  peculiar  exaltation 
of  devotedness,  as  if  they  were  athletes 
engaged  in  a  struggle  too  intense  to  ad- 
mit of  words.  Effie  remained  nearly 
motionless  ;  the  dry  crepitation  of  her 
tortured  breath  emphasized  the  hush  of 
the  room,  by  its  regular  iteration.  And 
hour  after  hour  the  plain  little  interior 
grew  more  sacred  as  "a  centre  of  pa- 
rental love,  while  the  man  and  woman 
to  whom  that  imperiled  life  was  dear 
watched  its  fading,  and  inhaled  the  poi- 
sonous atmosphere  around  them  without 
fear  of  the  danger  that  it  threatened  to 

Once,  when  Effie  was  to  take  a  pre- 
scribed potion,  she  roused  herself,  and 
looked  around  as  if  searching  for  aid,  or 
for  some  explanation  of  the  awful  com- 
bat in  which  she  was  forced  to  engage. 
The  voice  which  had  been  so  long  near- 
ly stifled  found  its  way  through  the 
choking  barrier  in  her  throat,  and  she 
gasped  painfully,  "  What  because?" 

At  length,  near  the  morning,  she  rose 
on  her  couch,  and  called  clearly  for  her 
mother.  The  final  moment  had  come, 
though  Roger  and  Mary,  misled  by  the 
last  bright  flicker  of  the  vital  flame, 
fancied  at  first  that  she  was  reviving. 
Suddenly,  the  signs  of  dissolution  set  in. 
The  child  continued  sitting  up,  and  the 
father  and  mother  each  held  one  of  her 
hands,  looking  anxiously  towards  her, 
striving  still  to  give  her  some  comfort. 
She  turned  her  eyes,  large  and  bright 
with  a  new  intelligence,  first  to  one 
and  then  to  the  other  :  but  presently 
their  lustre  began  to  dim  ;  her  strength 
waned;  there  pas?ed  from  her  fingers 
to  each  of  the  hands  in  which  they 
rested  three  quick,  fluttering  pulsations, 
that  did  not  stir  the  surface,  but  seemed 
to  thrill  electrically  from  the  interior 
sources  of  the  little  life.  The  father 
and  mother  instinctively  met  one  an- 
other's gaze,  and  without  a  syllable, 
recognized  that  they  had  received  the 




last  greeting  of  a  spirit  about  to  depart. 
In  the  midst  of  their  agony,  this  mys- 
terious communication  gave  them  one 
instant  of  supreme  perception  —  a  per- 
ception that  afterwards  lived  in  their 
memories  tinged  by  emotion  which,  par- 
adoxically, was  like  a  holy  joy. 

Then  Effie  sank  back,  breathless, 
quiet ;  calm,  calm  forever ;  rigid  in  life- 
lessness,  yet  lying  as  light  upon  the  bed 
as  a  drift  of  newly  fallen  snow.  The 
white  truce  upon  her  face  proclaimed 
surrender  and  peace. 

All  night  the  wind  had  been  sweep- 
ing to  and  fro,  bringing  together  the 
elements  of  a  storm.  When  Roger,  in 
the  weird,  gray  gleam  of  the  dawn-light, 
slipped  noiseless  as  a  ghost  into  the  nar- 
row parlor  where  Oliphant  waited,  the 
storm  burst  in  a  torrent  of  rain ;  and  the 
trees  before  the  house,  bending  in  the 
wind,  swayed  their  dark-draped  branches 
with  gestures  of  grief  and  abandonment. 



Now  that  the  fatal  blow  had  fallen 
upon  Roger  and  Mary,  which  their 
friends  would  so  gladly  have  strained 
every  faculty  to  prevent,  Oliphant  and 
Justin  found  that  they  could  help.  It 
is  the  sad  privilege  of  human  beings,  at 
such  times,  to  come  when  all  is  over  and 
prove  their  own  essential  uselessness  by 
performing  every  possible  act  of  practi- 
cal and  tender  aid  in  those  details  that 
cover  up  the  death  in  our  hearts,  as  dust 
is  made  to  cover  the  actual  dead.  Yet 
in  seasons  of  the  greatest  grief  at  a  per- 
soual  loss,  the  things  we  most  prize 
are  the  seemingly  useless  ones  —  sweet, 
ineffectual  flowers,  a  few  helpless  words, 
expressing  the  sorrow  of  those  whom 
we  love,  that  they  cannot  do  anything 
for  us. 

Vivian  was  quick  in  seconding  her 
husband  and  his  friend  to  give  what  as- 

sistance they  could  ;  for,  although  she 
had  hardly  known  Mary  Deering,  her 
loyalty  to  the  friendship  of  Oliphant 
brought  into  action  her  natural  fervor 
of  sympathy  as  a  young  wife  for  the 
stricken  mother.  Josephine,  too,  brought 
flowers  to  the  door  of  the  house  of  mourn- 
ing. Oliphaut  was  there  at  the  time,  and 
when  the  box  was  opened  an  impulse  led 
him  to  hurry  to  the  porch,  whence  he 
saw  Josephine  herself  moving  quickly 
away  down  the  shaded  street.  It  touched 
him  that  she  had  chosen  to  bring  the 
flowers  in  her  own  hands. 

But  nothing  was  heard  from  Octavia  ; 
she  made  no  sign  ;  so  far  as  Oliphant 
could  tell,  she  might  have  been  totally 
in  ignorance  of  the  catastrophe. 

Yet  how  could  she  do  anything  ?  She 
had  thrown  Oliphant  aside  in  such  a 
way  as  to  preclude  every  relation,  hence- 
forth, except  that  of  the  most  distant 
recognition.  She  had  had  but  very  slight 
intercourse  with  Mary  Deering,  and  it 
would  have  been  mainly  because  of  her 
constant  association  with  Oliphant  dur- 
ing the  season  that  she  would  have 
made,  if  at  all,  any  demonstration  of 
condolence.  Therefore,  she  was  entirely 
debarred  from  showing  her  sympathy. 
She  felt  a  great  sympathy,  nevertheless. 
I  do  not  care  to  analyze  the  sources  of 
it,  because  injustice  would  certainly  be 
done  in  trying  to  formulate  a  state  of 
mind  requiring  so  delicate  a  balance  to 
weigh  it,  as  hers  did.  But  I  am  sure 
that  genuine  womanly  compassion  and 
kindness  were  uppermost  in  her  mood. 
In  presence  of  this  tragedy,  too,  a  sharp 
light  fell  upon  her  recent  conduct,  which 
brought  out  with  terrifying  distinctness 
its  ugliness  and  cruelty.  She  began  to 
be  remorseful. 

She  did  form  a  plan  of  sending  some 
flowers  to  Mrs.  Deering,  anonymously ; 
but  the  conclusion  soon  followed  that 
such  a  course  would  be  cowardly,  and 
merely  an  attempt  to  narcotize  her  con- 
science. Then,  hearing  that  funeral 
services  were  to  be  held  over  poor  little 




Effie  at  old  Trinity,  she  resolved  to  go 
thither  and  attend  them.  But  from  this 
as  well  she  was  restrained,  by  a  convic- 
tion that  she  had  no  right  to  do  it. 
"  Why  should  I  take  advantage  of  this 
dreadful  sorrow,"  she  said  to  herself, 
"  under  the  pretense  that  a  generous 
feeling  of  pity  makes  me  set  aside  my 
personal  affair  with  Mr.  Oliphant  ?  " 

And  so  she  sat  wretchedly  alone  at 
High  Lawn,  unable  to  take  any  step, 
and  suddenly  deserted  by  those  who  had 
lately  been  nearest  to  her.  Josephine 
did  not  approach  her,  and  Perry  Thor- 
burn  had  not  come  to  see  her,  for  some 
time  past.  It  did  not  need  these  things, 
however,  to  give  her  a  true  comprehen- 
sion of  her  pitiful  error.  Just  then  when 
she  sprang  forward  and  asked  Oliphant 
to  forgive  her,  before  he  left  the  house, 
the  first  seed  of  repentance  had  sprung 
up  in  her  mind,  stirred  to  life  though  it 
was  by  a  false  impulse  of  vanity  and  con- 
ceit. But  repentance  had  multiplied  in 
her,  since,  from  a  hundred  other  germs  ; 
and  before  she  heard  of  Effie's  illness 
at  all,  her  heart  was  aching  for  Oliphant. 
She  was  disgusted  with  herself;  she  ut- 
terly repudiated  what  she  had  done  at 
the  prompting  of  a  vindictive  whim, 
that  now  appeared  hardly  less  than  in- 

Tragic  events  often  come  in  such  a 
way  that,  while  they  seem  to  bring 
about  certain  moral  changes  in  us,  and 
we  therefore  refer  such  changes  to  what 
we  call  a  mere  "  accident,"  those  events 
are  really  only  the  afterclap,  or  the 
tangible  symbol,  of  what  has  already 
taken  place  in  our  minds. 

Of  course  I  do  not  know  why  Effie 
died  just  at  that  time  ;  but  I  am  perfect- 
ly clear  that  Octavia's  repentance,  which 
was  emphasized  aud  stimulated  by  this 
disaster,  was  in  no  manner  a  consequence 
of  it, 

The  day  came  for  the  services  at 
Trinity.  The  storm  had  cleared ;  there 
was  an  exultant,  cool  vigor  in  the  air. 
Very  few  people,  naturally,  attended ; 

but  it  had  been  an  ardent  wish  of  Jus- 
tiu's  that,  if  auy  obsequy  were  held  in 
Newport,  it  should  be  where  he  could 
offer  his  farewell  to  the  lost  spirit  of 
the  child,  in  music.  And  he  played  the 
Raindrop  Prelude,  which  stole  gently 
through  the  church  with  a  sweet,  dewy 
freshness  and  simplicity,  yet  fell  plain- 
tively upon  the  listeners,  and  made  them 
thiuk  of  gentle  tears  shed  in  a  loving 
resignation.  Oliphant  remembered  too 
well  how  he  had  heard  that  melody  be- 
fore ;  and  as  it  had  brought  to  his  mind 
then  the  refreshing  showers  of  summer, 
it  now  suggested  the  sad  drops  of  au- 
tumn, that  patter  down  a  requiem  for 
dead  hope. 

The  coffin  was  carried  out.  Oliphant 
waited  for  a  brief  space,  and  as  he  made 
his  way  to  the  street  he  met  Josephine 
Hobart.  "  Mr.  Oliphant,"  she  said,  "  I 
want  to  say  to  you  —  though  it  may 
seem  unusual,  coming  from  a  stranger 
almost,  as  I  am  —  how  much  I  feel  for 
your  cousins.  Their  loss  has  gone  to 
my  heart  more  than  anything  that  has 
happened  for  many  a  day.  It  must 
have  been  a  great  blow  to  you,  too." 

"  Yes,"  he  answered  ;  "  I  don't  know 
why,  but  it  is  to  me  like  losing  a  child 
of  my  own." 

I  suppose  she  must  have  read  the  se- 
cret of  his  other  loss.  Her  large,  soft, 
unrevealing  eyes  were  filled  with  a  stilly, 
comprehensive  look  of  fellowship. 

"You  are  going  with  them  to  New 
York?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  yes." 

"  And  sha'n't  we  see  you  in  Newport 
again  ?  " 

Oliphant's  face  grew  vague  aud  list- 
less, for  an  instant.  "  I  'm  afraid  not : 
I  don't  believe  I  shall  come  back,"  he 

He  had  not  admitted  this  to  the 

Before  he  left  her  he  thanked  her  for 
her  gracious  act  of  bringing  the  flowers. 
They  shook  hands,  and  the  unconscious 
trembling  of  her  touch  roused  in  him, 




transiently,  an  undefined  wonder  at  the 
stress  of  her  sensibility,  which  he  at- 
tributed wholly  to  the  death  of  Effie 
Deering.  But  as  he  went  to  join  his 
cousins  at  the  New  York  boat,  his  mind 
was  on  Octavia  and  the  dreariness  of  the 
fact  that  she  was  not  with  him,  sharing 
the  piteous  solemnity  of  this  hour,  in 
which  even  the  glad  young  love  of  Jus- 
tin and  Vivian  had  participated. 

Oliphaut's  care  had  smoothed  the  way 
for  Roger  and  Mary,  by  putting  out  of 
sight  the  rougher  details  of  the  journey  ; 
but  the  night-voyage  to  New  York  was 
a  melancholy  one  for  them  all.  They 
glided  away,  hoVever,  and  were  lost  in 
a  moment  to  the  gay,  pleasure-seeking 
little  world  in  which  they  had  lately 
been  active.  Octavia  heard  the  great 
boat  go  by,  with  its  throbbing  hum  of 
strong  paddle-wheels,  and  knew  that  it 
was  taking  her  honest,  defeated  lover 
away  from  her  —  perhaps  forever  ;  but 
it  was  too  late  to  recall  him,  then.  In 
a  few  minutes  the  sound  of  the  depart- 
ing steamer  ceased  to  vibrate  upon  her 
ear  :  she  was  left  to  the  desert  silence 
which  she  had  made  for  herself. 

Change  and  catastrophe  had  over- 
taken several  of  the  people  about  whom 
this  story  centres;  but  it  must  not  be 
supposed  for  an  instant  that  such  dis- 
turbances of  mere  feeling  or  fortune 
affected  in  the  least  the  dazzling  monot- 
ony of  festal  existence  in  the  society 
around  them.  It  is  true,  Dana  Sweetser 
seized  upon  the  untimely  demise  of  the 
Deerings'  child  as  a  potent  case  in  point 
to  fortify  his  position  regarding  drain- 
age. Sundry  physicians  insisted  that 
the  fatal  malady  was  directly  due  to  the 
absence  of  good  hygienic  conditions. 
Sundry  others,  supported  by  a  large 
number  of  people  who  had  not  yet  died, 
disputed  the  proposition.  Every  one 
agreed  that  it  was  very  sad  for  the 
Deerings  ;  and  industrious  correspon- 
dents, who  habitually  wrote  and  tele- 
graphed catalogues  of  visitors  and  dis- 
tinguished dining-room  tattle  to  leading 

journals,  dropped  a  sentence  or  two  of 
rose-water  pathos  on  Effie's  bier.  All 
the  proprieties  were  observed,  and  noth- 
ing was  done  to  better  the  drainage  ;  so 
Dana  Sweetser  fell  back  temporarily  on 
the  Alaska  and  British  Columbia  Inlet 

One  result  of  the  discussion  was  that 
the  Deerings  were  elevated  to  a  social 
importance,  in  the  way  of  talk,  which 
they  themselves  had  never  enjoyed. 
They  were  utilized  with  soup,  at  din- 
ners, as  an  introductory  topic,  or  as  a 
relish  with  the  hors  d'ceuvres  ;  by  des- 
sert, however,  they  ceased  to  be  men- 
tioned ;  and  in  two  or  three  days  their 
misfortune  was  dismissed  entirely. 

But  Octavia  could  not  so  easily  get 
rid  of  the  things  which  had  lately  hap- 
pened. Her  time  was  in  demand  for 
many  engagements,  day  and  night,  and 
she  moved  in  the  thickest  of  the  whirl. 
Oliphant  being  out  of  the  way,  more- 
over, various  discouraged  gentlemen,  who 
had  stood  at  a  distance  while  he  was 
present,  began  to  crowd  round  her  again. 
Perry  Thorburn  likewise  suddenly  re- 
turned to  her  society,  and  asked  her  to 
drive  with  him,  every  day,  although  he 
hardly  spoke  to  her  of  Josephine,  any 
longer.  Notwithstanding  all  this,  and 
the  sparkling  exterior  which  she  main- 
tained, her  inward  distress  deepened. 
When  alone,  she  was  moody  and  dis- 
pirited ;  no  employment  sufficed  to  calm 
her  restless  thoughts ;  she  spent  hours 
reviewing  her  association  with  Oliphant 
and  her  conduct  towards  him.  At  last 
she  paid  her  intended  visit  to  Vivian, 
which  she  had  been  deferring  out,  of 
dread  at  meeting  the  keen  eyes  of  Oli- 
phant's  friends,  who  would  be  so  quick 
to  detect  the  change  that  had  come  over 
her,  and  her  responsibility  for  the  change 
in  him.  At  first  she  tried  to  discover 
when  Oliphant  was  likely  to  return  ;  but 
before  she  left  Vivian,  she  had  made  a 
partial  confession  of  the  true  state  of 
things,  though  with  important  reserva- 
tions. She  admitted  that  Oliphaut  had 




proposed  for  her  hand,  and  that  she  had 
sent  him  away  without  hope  ;  but  she 
did  not  tell  of  the  poisonous  thrusts  she 
had  given  him. 

"  I  'm  so  sorry,"  said  Vivian,  looking 
up  from  a  little  drawing  she  was  mak- 
ing for  Justin  —  "  so  sorry  for  poor  Mr. 
Oliphant ; "  then  she  added,  her  blue 
eyes  scanning  the  widow's  face  for  an 
instant  with  complete  but  kindly  insight, 
"  and  sorry  for  you,  too,  Octavia." 

"  For  me  ?"  Octavia  blushed  faintly, 
and  moved  her  head  so  that  only  the 
dainty  profile  of  her  face  came  within 
Vivian's  range. 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  bride.  "  I  can't 
help  saying  so.  He  is  such  a  sterling 
man.  Of  course  I  don't  attempt  to  judge 
for  you,  but  I  think  you  may  regret, 
some  time,  what  you  have, done." 

"  But  do  you  approve  of  second 
marriages  ?  "  Octavia  rejoined,  quickly. 
"  Would  you  be  willing  "... 

"  No,"  said  Vivian,  promptly.  "  At 
least,"  she  continued,  putting  another 
touch  to  her  sketch,  "  I  can't  conceive 
of  myself  in  that  position,  and  somehow 
I  have  a  feeling  against  it.  But  then, 
true  love  is  too  great  a  thing  to  be 
bounded  by  my  feeling,  I  am  sure.  It 
comes  in  so  many  different  ways  .  .  . 
And  when  it  comes,  one  is  iu  the  hands 
of  a  higher  power,  which  one  ought  to 
be  very  careful  about  trifling  with." 

Nothing  more  was  said,  for  a  few  mo- 
ments. Afterwards,  they  passed  to  the 
alienation  of  Vivian's  mother  and  broth- 
er, which  still  continued.  But  while 
Octavia  stood  by  the  piano,  making  a 
final  remark  or  two,  Vivian  casually  re- 
sumed the  subject  of  Oliphaut.  "  It 
troubles  me,"  she  said,  "  that  Mr.  Oli- 
phant does  n't  come  back.  Let 's  see  : 
it's  three — no,  four  days,  now.  Justin 
wrote  him  a  long  letter,  but  we  've  only 
received  one  little  note  from  him.  He  's 
staying  at  the  Van  Voort  House,  and 
I  'm  afraid  he  's  too  comfortable  to  be 
in  a  hurry  about  coming  here  again." 

She  laughed   lightly,  with  an  air  of 

directing  a  sarcasm  against  her  own 
housekeeping;  but  Octavia  understood 
her.  They  kissed  each  other,  as  they 

Octavia  went  home  and  spent  much 
of  the  day  composing  a  short  letter  to 
Oliphant :  — 

MY  DEAR  MR.  OLIPHANT,  —  I  shall 
not  wonder  if  you  are  surprised  at  hear- 
ing from  me,  for  I  feel  that  there  would 
be  no  propriety  in  my  writing  to  you, 
after  what  has  happened  between  us  — 
nor  should  1  wish  to  do  so  —  were  it 
not  for  a  single  thing  which  no  one  but 
myself  can  tell  you.  And  even  I  have 
discovered  it  only  since  you  went  from 

That  is,  that  I  now  see  how  wrong 
I  was  in  my  treatment  of  you,  and  how 
much  injustice  I  did  you  by  some  of 
the  things  I  said  the  last  time  we  met. 
What  led  me  on,  it  is  hard  to  say  ex- 
actly. I  am  not  sure  that  I  myself  un- 
derstand ;  but  even  if  it  were  possible 
for  me  to  unravel  it  all,  perhaps  you 
would  rather  spare  me  the  mortification, 
if  you  had  the  choice. 

You  have  been  called  away ;  it  seems 
to  be  uncertain  whether  you  will  return 
here,  and  if  you  did  so  we  should  not 
be  likely  to  meet,  I  suppose.  This  is 
why  I  consider  it  best  to  acknowledge 
my  fault  by  writing.  I  do  not  ask  you, 
Mr.  Oliphant,  to  forgive  —  as  I  self- 
ishly did,  that  day  —  but  only  to  par- 
don me  for  not  seeing  sooner  what  I 
was  drifting  to,  and  preventing  it.  I 
cannot  hope  that  you  will  think  of  me 
otherwise  than  with  censure,  or  that  I 
can  ever  recover  the  friendship  I  have 
sacrificed  ;  but  it  is  my  duty  to  admit 
my  mistake,  and  to  assure  you  of  my 
lasting  respect.  Sincerely, 


After  dispatching  this,  she  was  more 
at  peace  with  herself.  Ever  since  Oli- 
phant's  departure,  she  had  been  under- 
going one  very  peculiar  form  of  nervous 


Hdfiz  of  SUrdz. 


disturbance.  The  rotary  beat  of  the 
steamer's  wheels,  with  the  transient 
pause  and  renewed  throb  as  the  engines 
turned  them,  kept  sounding  in  her  ears 
at  the  most  inopportune  times ;  and 
every  morning,  early,  just  before  dawn 
woke  the  sky,  sleep  deserted  her,  and 
she  lay  waiting  intently  for  the  same 
sound  to  assure  her  that  the  boat  from 
New  York  was  returning. 

At  first  it  would  steal  to  her  from  a 
distance,  through  the  dusk,  like  a  deep, 
unsteady  breathing  ;  gradually,  and  then 
more  swiftly,  it  became  defined  as  a  reg- 
ular and  mighty  pulsation,  coming  near- 
er, increasing  in  volume :  it  was  what 
one  might  imagine  to  be  the  voice  of  a 
vast  shadow.  Finally,  it  developed  into 
a  systematic  concussion,  the  nature  of 

which  was  unmistakable.  Octavia  would 
rise,  go  to  the  window,  and  watch  the 
vague  white  shape  as  it  rounded  Fort 
Adams  like  a  floating  town,  with  myste- 
rious colored  lights  strung  up  at  stem 
and  stern  and  at  various  other  points, 
or  shining  from  the  windows.  There 
was  something  spectral  about  it,  and  the 
palpitation  of  the  huge  paddle-wheels 
was  like  a  shudder.  Involuntarily  Oc- 
tavia would  shudder,  too,  and  creep  back 
to  bed. 

But  to-night,  since  her  letter  had  gone, 
she  did  not  shudder  when  she  woke  and 
saw  the  boat.  A  soft  warmth  envel- 
oped her  heart,  as  if  that  spectral  shape 
had  been  the  forerunner  of  some  great 
happiness  destined  to  come  to  her  in  its 

George  Parsons  Lathrop. 


known  by  the  nom  de  plume  of  Hafiz, 
was  born  early  in  the  fourteenth  centu- 
ry of  the  Christian  era.  It  is  impossi- 
ble to  determine  the  exact  date  of  his 
birth,  but  the  chronogram  on  his  tomb- 
stone states  that  he  died  at  an  advanced 
age  in  the  year  of  the  Hijrah  791,  cor- 
responding to  A.  D.  1388.  Muham- 
mad (praiseworthy)  was  his  real  name 
(Warn)  ;  Shamsu'ddm  (sun  of  faith) 
was  his  honorary  title  (lakaty  ;  and 
Hafiz  (keeper,  that  is,  rememberer,  of 
the  Kur'an)  was  his  poetic  surname, 
the  so-called  makhlas  (asylum)  or  taJc- 
hallus  (refuge),  both  significant  terms 
for  the  disguise  under  which  an  author 
may  mask  and  shield  his  personality. 

Most  Persian  poets  are  known  to  us 
solely  by  their  noms  de  plume,  which 
commonly  have  &  double  meaning,  and 
are  all  the  more  highly  prized  on  this 
account.  Sa'di  (fortunate)  probably  as- 
sumed this  name  out  of  respect  for  Sa'd 

bin  Zangi,  the  fifth  of  the  Atabak  sov- 
ereigns, in  whose  reign  he  flourished, 
and  to  whom  he  dedicated  the  Gulistan. 
Firdausi  (Paradisical)  signifies  also  gar- 
dener, which  was  the  occupation  of  the 
poet's  father,  and  doubtless,  too,  his  own 
in  early  life.  Jam!  (goblet)  means  like- 
wise native  of  Jam,  a  small  town  near 
Herat,  in  Khurasan.  Nizami  (stringer 
of  pearls)  may  also  be  interpreted  as  re- 
former of  religion.  In  all  such  cases 
the  more  commonplace  signification  may 
safely  be  assumed  to  be  the  correct  one, 
the  other  explanation  being  merely  a 
witty  conceit  of  complimentary  after- 
thought, the  origin  of  which  is  usually 
illustrated  by  an  anecdote.  Thus  it  is 
said  that  at  the  first  interview  of  Abu'l 
Kasim  Mansur  with  the  Sultan  Mahmud 
the  monarch  was  so  charmed  with  the 
poet  that  he  exclaimed,  "  This  man  has 
made  our  palace  a  paradise"  (Jirdaus)  ; 
hence  the  epithet  al  Firdausi,  the  Par- 
adisical. It  would  be  superfluous  to 


Hdfiz  of  Shirdz. 


warn  philologists  against  the  question- 
able and  quicksandy  nature  of  anecdotal 
etymologies.  'Umar  al  Khayytlm  (the 
tent-maker)  took  his  nom  de  plume  from 
the  trade  which  he  learned  from  his  fa- 
ther, and  practiced  whilst  pursuing  his 
astronomical  studies  in  his  native  village, 
near  Nlsh&pur.  But  it  must  be  remem- 
bered that  bayt  means  tent  and  verse  ; 
and  in  Persian  poetics  the  analogy  be- 
tween tent-making  and  verse-making  is 
carried  out  to  the  fullest  extent,  and  curi- 
ous functional  correspondences  are  dis- 
covered between  the  parts  of  the  respec- 
tive structures.  The  pavilion  is  a  poem, 
and  the  simple  epithet  al  Khayyam  ap- 
peals to  the  Persian  imagination  as  a 
suggestive  equivoque. 

Hafiz  frequently  puns  on  his  own 
name.  Thus  he  says,  "  Whether  I  am 
a  reverend  doctor  or  a  debauchee,  what 
is  that  to  thee  ?  I  am  the  keeper  (liufiz) 
of  my  own  secrets  and  the  knower  of 
my  own  times."  Again  he  alludes  to  it 
in  the  following  self-praise  :  "  By  the 
Kur'an  which  thou  keepest  in  thy  heart, 
I  have  never  heard  sweeter  strains  than 
thine,  0  Hafiz  !  "  In  one  of  the  idyls  he 
boasts  that  of  all  the  Hafizes  of  the 
earth  (hdjizani  jahari)  not  one  has 
equaled  him  in  interweaving  worldly 
wit  and  wisdom  with  the  sententious 
truths  of  the  Kur'an  ;  and  he  concludes 
one  of  his  odes  with  the  assertion  that 

"  'Neath  the  vaulted  sk}',  no  Hafiz  ha?  obtained 
Such  wealth  of  grace  as  I  have  from  the  Kur'aa 

But  notwithstanding  the  lofty  import  of 
his  name  and  the  pride  with  which  he 
alludes  to  it,  it  is  evident  from  his  poems 
that  he  drew  fuller  and  more  frequent 
draughts  of  inspiration  from  the  khard- 
bdt  (tavern)  than  from  the  Kur'an. 

Native  records  and  traditions  furnish 
very  little  positive  information  concern- 
ing the  comparatively  uneventful  life  of 
Hafiz.  His  intense  devotion  to  study 
and  to  literary  pursuits  rendered  him 
averse  to  travel,  or  to  a  residence  at  any 
of  the  courts  of  them  any  petty  and 

rival  dynasties  which  had  sprung  up  out 
of  the  ruins  of  the  great  Mogul  empire, 
and  which,  while  diminishing  the  polit- 
ical power  of  Persia  by  dismembering 
it,  favored  the  cultivation  of  poetry  and 
polite  learning  through  the  ambition  and 
emulation  of  each  princedom  to  become 
the  chief  centre  and  nursery  of  the  arts 
and  sciences.  Hafiz  was  held  in  high 
honor  by  these  sovereigns,  who  sent  him 
repeated  invitations  to  visit  them,  and 
sought  in  vain,  by  splendid  gifts  and  of- 
fers of  patronage,  to  draw  him  away 
from  the  quiet  and  retired  life  of  a  schol- 
ar. Sultan  Ahmad  tried  to  prevail  upon 
him  to  come  to  Baghdad  ;  but  the  poet 
prudently  declined  to  become  the  pen- 
sioner of  a  monarch  who,  although  a 
man  of  elegant  tastes  and  fine  accom- 
plishments, a  connoisseur  of  gems  and 
an  amateur  in  keramics  and  bricabrac, 
was  a  terror  to  his  subjects,  a  tyrant 
whose  cruel  and  capricious  temper  was 
aggravated  by  an  excessive  use  of  opium. 
Hafiz,  however,  wrote  him  a  letter  of 
thanks  and  an  ode  which  is  quite  as 
eulogistic  as  this  sovereign's  notorious 
character  would  permit. 

Once,  at  the  urgent  solicitation  of 
Mahmud  Shah  Bahmani,  Hafiz  set  out 
on  a  journey  to  the  south  of  India ;  but 
on  arriving  at  Hurmuz  and  embarking 
on  the  ship  sent  for  his  conveyance,  he 
became  so  alarmed  and  nauseated  by 
the  sea  that  he  made  some  excuse  for 
going  ashore,  and  returned  forthwith  to 
Shiraz.  He  then  addressed  to  the  Shah 
an  ode  in  which  he  recalled  the  stormy 
horrors  of  the  sea,  which  he  would  not 
encounter  for  all  the  pearly  treasures  in 
its  depths.  Mahmud  was  much  amused 
at  this  apology,  and  rewarded  the  poet 
for  his  good  intentions  with  a  purse  of 
a  thousand  pieces  of  gold. 

Very  different  was  the  treatment  he 
received  from  Yahya,  Shah  of  Yazd, 
whom  he  actually  visited,  but  who  does 
not  appear  to  have  been  especially  lib- 
eral in  largesses.  Hafiz  always  alludes 
with  some  bitterness  to  this  monarch, 


Hdfiz  of  SUrdz. 


and  ascribes  his  niggardliness  to  the 
envy  and  ill-will  of  courtiers,  whose 
heads  he  would  fain  see  beaten  and  ban- 
died in  the  game  of  golf.  In  the  fourth 
fragment  he  contrasts  this  meanness  with 
the  munificence  of  other  princes  :  — 

"From  Hurmuz's  king,  unsung,  unseen,  a  hun- 
dred gifts  I  won; 

I  saw  and  sung  the  king  of  Yazd,  but  left  his 
courts  with  none." 

Now  and  then  Hafiz  complains  of  his 
native  land,  and  even  expresses  a  desire 
to  turn  his  steps  towards  Baghdad ;  the 
rose  of  Persia  puts  forth  no  bud  of  joy 
for  him ;  Shiraz  does  not  appreciate  his 
poesy  ;  and  he  takes  no  pleasure  in  en- 
vious Fars.  But  these  were  only  the 
passing  moods  of  a  fine-strung  and  sen- 
sitive nature.  In  reality  he  was  strongly 
attached  to  the  place  of  his  birth,  and, 
during  his  short  sojourn  in  Yazd,  expe- 
rienced, like  his  contemporary  Dante, 
when  banished  from  Florence, 

"  si  come  sa  di  sale 
II  pane  altrui,  e  come  6  duro  calle 
Lo  scendere  e'l  salir  per  1'altrui  scale." 

In  the  sixty-eighth  quatrain  he  paints  in 
vivid  and  realistic  colors  the  consuming 
pains  and  emaciating  effects  of  nostalgia. 
His  love  of  Shiraz  finds  utterance  in 
several  odes,  in  one  of  which,  written 
during  his  stay  at  Yazd,  he  vows  that,  on 
his  return,  he  will  go  straight  to  the 
wine-shop,  and  there  relate  his  adven- 
tures to  the  music  of  the  barbiton  and 
the  merry  clink  of  beakers. 

Touching  the  domestic  life  of  Hafiz, 
we  know  only  that  he  was  married  and 
had  a  son,  who  died  December  23, 1362, 
as  we  learn  from  the  twenty-fifth  frag- 
ment, where  the  exact  date  is  given  ac- 
cording to  the  Muhammadan  era :  — 

"On  Rabi'ul-Awwal's  sixth,  one  Friday  morn, 
My  moon-faced  darling  from  my  heart  was  torn. 
Seven  hundred  sixty-four  years  since  the  Flight 
This  hardship  on  me  came  as  water  light. 
Can  sighs  and  plaints  and  tears  my  peace  restore 
When  now  my  life  as  empty  sport  is  o'er  ?  "  J 

l  By  the  phrase  "  as  water  light,"  Bicknell 
means  "  with  the  facility  of  water."  This  is  hard- 
ly the  true  sense  of  the  original :  cku  ab  gasht  ba- 
nian hall  hikdyali  muskkil,  "  like  water  came  upon 

The  sad  event  is  sorrowfully  recalled 
in  a  characteristic  ode  ;  and  the  thirty- 
third  fragment  shows  how  tenderly  the 
bereaved  father  clung  to  the  memory  of 
his  child :  — 

"The  days  of  sweet  spring  hare  come;  the  dam- 
ask and  wild  roses  now, 

With  tulips,  from  earth  arise :  oh,  why  in  the 
dust  then  art  thou  ? 

My  tears  I  will  shed  in  streams,  as  pour  from 
the  spring  clouds  in  rain  ; 

These  tears  on  thy  dust  shall  fall,  until  thou  art 
risen  again." 

In  another  ode  Hafiz  deplores  the  de- 
cease and  praises  the  virtues  of  his  wife. 
In  the  first  verse  he  says,  — 

"  The  friend  who  made  my  house  a  home  where 

peris  well  might  be, 

Was,  peri-like,  from  head  to  foot  from  ever}* 
blemish  free." 

"  In  her  face  refinement  blended  with 
the  sweet  endearments  of  love,"  and 
"  she  wore  the  richest  crown  in  the 
ample  realm  of  beauty."  Hammer  and 
Rosenzweig  both  assume  that  this  ode 
was  written  on  the  death  of  an  intimate 
friend.  But  the  couplet  above  quoted 
seems  inconsistent  with  such  a  suppo- 
sition. The  word  yar,  here  translated 
"  friend,"  means  literally  helpmeet,  and, 
like  the  French  ami  or  amie,  is  used, 
as  a  term  of  affection,  to  denote  spouse. 
In  Persian,  however,  yar  may  be  either 
masculine  or  feminine,  and  the  person- 
al pronoun  u  signifies  either  he  or  she, 
there  being  only  one  form  for  both  gen- 
ders. This  epicenity  adds  much  to  the 
indefiniteness  and  gives  great  latitude 
to  the  interpretation  of  Persian  poetry, 
both  in  a  natural  and  in  a  mystical 
sense.  The  line  of  demarcation  between 
the  literal  and  the  allegorical,  the  sensual 
and  the  spiritual,  is  thus  rendered  faint 
and  not  easily  definable.  This  vague- 
ness possesses  a  peculiar  chai-m  for  the 
Oriental,  and  by  the  opportunity  it  af- 
fords of  juxtapositing  incongruities  and 
giving  a  fantastic  turn  to  ideas  fur- 
descending  the  painful  tale."  In  other  words,  the 
news  came  upon  him  like  the  sudden  and  chilling 
shock  of  a  stream  of  falling  water. 


Hdfiz  of  SUrdz. 


nishes  a  cheap  surrogate  for  humor. 
Sometimes  the  poet  celebrates  an  ab- 
stract ideal,  rather  than  a  concrete  em- 
bodiment of  beauty.  Again,  the  beloved 
object  is  the  Divine  Being,  a  prince,  a 
patron,  a  teacher,  a  boon  companion,  or 
a  friend. 

It  is  highly  probable  that  many  of 
the  odes,  which  are  repugnant  to  us  be- 
cause they  are  supposed  to  describe  a 
too  ardent  affection  for  men,  really  ex- 
press a  tender  attachment  to  women. 
The  so-called  mulamma'  or  party-colored 
ode,  of  which  every  alternate  line  is 
Arabic,  tends  to  confirm  this  hypoth- 
esis, since  the  Arabic  pronoun,  which 
has  a  distinct  form  for  each  gender,  is 
here  feminine.  The  same  is  true  of  an- 
other ode  written  in  a  medley  of  Arabic, 
pure  Persian,  and  the  dialect  of  Shiraz. 
In  his  youth  Ilaiiz  fell  passionately  in 
love  with  a  maiden  who  was  known  by 
the  pet-name  of  Shakhi  Nabat  (shoot  of 
sugar-cane,  or  stick  of  candy),  and  who 
seems  to' have  preferred  him  even  to  his 
formidable  rival,  the  Prince  of  Shiraz. 
Later  in  life  he  became  deeply  and  des- 
perately enamored  of  a  beautiful  heiress 
surnamed  'Arusi  Jahan  (bride  of  the 
world),  and  sought  her  hand  in  mar- 
riage ;  but  the  young  lady,  though  admir- 
ing his  genius  and  esteeming  his  char- 
acter, did  not  return  his  affection,  and 
declined  a  nearer  union  in  the  bonds  of 
wedlock.  In  view  of  these  tender  ex- 
periences, and  perhaps  many  others  of 
a  similar  kind,  it  is  hardly  credible  that 
Hafiz,  whose  native  city  is  still  cele- 
brated for  its  charming  women,  should 
have  wasted  all  his  sweet  lyrics  upon 
cup-bearers,  minstrels,  strolling  Lulian, 
musk-scented  dandies  with  corkscrew 
love-locks,  fruity-faced  wine-bibbers,  and 
tulip-cheeked  boys. 

Muhammadan  law  and  custom,  it  is 
true,  place  all  sorts  of  absurd  restrictions 
upon  the  free  and  friendly  intercourse 
of  the  sexes,  and  the  unnatural  state  of 
society  thus  produced  fosters  unnatural 
vices.  Strong,  manly  love  degenerates 

VOL.  LIII. — NO.  315.  7 

into  puling  sentimentalism  and  pederas- 
tic  passion,  tainting  erotic  poetry,  and 
destroying  whatever  pleasure  we  might 
otherwise  take  in  the  genial  conceptions 
and  graceful  diction  of  the  writer.  Only 
a  vitiated  taste  can  relish  the  putrescent 
piquancy  of  this  kind  of  literary  haul 

Nevertheless,  there  is  good  reason  for 
believing  that  Eastern  poets  have  been 
greatly  misunderstood  and  misrepresent- 
ed on  this  point,  and  that  the  disgusting 
theme  is  treated  by  them  less  frequently 
than  is  usually  supposed.  Oriental,  and 
especially  Persian,  women  of  the  middle 
class  enjoy  far  greater  freedom  than 
Europeans  generally  imagine.  Although 
it  would  be  a  sin  against  decency  and 
decorum  for  them  to  appear  in  public 
unveiled,  except  in  cases  where  extreme 
ugliness  or  the  wrinkles  of  old  age  might 
suffice  as  a  mask,  yet  it  is  a  mistake 
to  suppose  that  they  pass  their  lives 
jealously  immured  within  the  walls  of  a 
harem.  The  witty  and  spirited  satire 
entitled  Kitabi  Kulsum  Nana  (Book  of 
Kulsum  Nana),  ostensibly  composed  by 
a  conclave  of  Persian  matrons  for  the 
guidance  of  their  sex  in  domestic  and 
social  affairs  and  in  the  general  conduct 
of  life,  gives  ample  proof  that  the  dames 
and  damsels  of  Iran  are  quite  tenacious 
enough  of  their  prescriptive  rights  and 
traditional  prerogatives,  and  fully  com- 
petent to  maintain  them  against  all  mar- 
ital and  paternal  encroachments.  The 
manner  in  which  they  may  assert  their 
liberty  and  pursue  their  pleasure  in  en- 
tertaining guests,  receiving  and  return- 
ing visits,  frequenting  the  bath,  or  pay- 
ing their  devotions  in  the  mosque  is 
set  forth  with  sufficient  explicitness  to 
satisfy  the  most  advanced  advocate  of 
"  woman's  rights "  in  the  Western 

Despite  all  her  apparent  languor 
and  love  of  luxurious  ease,  the  Per- 
sian woman  is  un  esprit  fort  in  her 
own  sphere.  In  habits  of  thought  and 
tone  of  feeling  she  has  much  in  common 


Hdfiz  of  Shirdz. 


with  the  French  woman.  Making  due 
allowance  for  the  generic  difference  be- 
tween Oriental  and  Occidental  culture, 
the  ladies  of  gay  Shiraz  and  grave  Is- 
pahan are  strikingly  akin  to  those  of  • 
Paris  in  all  the  salient  traits  of  charac- 
ter and  qualities  of  mind.  The  same 
exquisite  taste  and  native  grace ;  the 
same  tact  in  asserting  their  indepen- 
dence in  all  matters  touching  les  petites 
morales  ;  the  same  wit-craft  and  witch- 
craft, which  Firdausi  declared  to  be 
"  matchless  and  supreme  "  in  his  coun- 
trywomen,—  in  short,  the  same  savoir- 
faire  and  savoir  vivre  are  peculiar  to 

Oriental  convenance  would  hardly  per- 
mit a  poet  to  blazon  in  his  verse  the 
name  of  his  lady-love,  or  in  any  way  to 
give  prominence  and  publicity  to  her 
personality.  Indeed,  the  proper  thing 
for  him  to  do  would  be  to  disguise  so  far 
as  possible  the  object  of  his  attachment, 
and  to  dissemble  the  real  source  of  his 
"  thought's  unrest."  For  this  purpose, 
the  aforementioned  sexual  ambiguity 
of  the  Persian  language  would  stand 
him  in  good  stead,  and  offer  a  most  con- 
venient covert  under  which  to  conceal 
his  passion  from  the  ordinary  reader, 
whilst  revealing  it  to  her  who,  knowing 
his  secret,  could  read  it  between  the 
lines.  Occasionally,  too,  he  might  let 
it  peep  out,  as  Hafiz  does  in  the  thirty- 
fifth  ode,  where  he  refers  to  the  mir- 
acle of  love  which  has  transformed  his 
dry  writing-reed  into  a  succulent  shoot 
of  sugar-cane  (Shakhi  Nabat),  yielding 
sweetness  more  delicious  than  honey. 
The  magic  which  wrought  this  meta- 
morphosis, and  put  sap  and  savor  into 
his  hard  and  hollow  kilk,  was  the  power- 
ful spell  of  the  tender  sentiment,  which 
Shakespeare  declares  to  be  the  hidden 
spring  and  inspiration  of  all  lyric 
song  :  — 

"  Never  durst  poet  touch  a  pen  to  write 
Until  his  ink  were  tempered  with  love's  sighs." 

A  reminiscence  of  this  event  and  of  the 
experiences  attending  it  is  contained  in 

a  ghazal  where  the  name  of  sugar  candy 
is  said  to  excite  the  jealous  taunts  of 
the  "  sweets  "  (shirindri)  of  Shiraz. 

One  of  the  best  known  and  most  pop- 
ular of  Hafiz's  odes  is  the  eighth,  which 
begins  as  follows  :  — 

"  If  that  Shirazian  Turk  would  deign  to  take  my 

heart  within  his  hand, 

To  make  his  Indian  mole  my  own  I  'd  give  Buk- 
hara and  Samarkand." 

Bicknell  and  all  the  German  translators, 
except  Nesselmann,  assume  that  it  was 
addressed  to  some  young  man  ;  but  there 
is  really  no  ground  whatever  for  this 
assumption.  The  Turk  of  Shiraz  evi- 
dently refers  to  one  of  those  wandering 
Lulian,  famous  for  their  skill  in  singing 
and  dancing,  and  for  the  beauty  of  their 
maidens,  who,  in  the  third  couplet,  are 
said  to  embroil  the  town  by  their  blan- 
dishments, and,  true  to  the  predatory 
habits  of  their  tribe,  prey  upon  and 
spoil  the  "  heart's  content "  of  the  Shi- 
razian youth.  "  Turk,"  as  we  have  al- 
ready observed,  is  the  synonym  of  ca- 
pricious charmer  or  cruel  coquette.  In 
the  fourth  couplet  the  poet  contrasts  the 
unadorned  loveliness  of  the  Lull  maid 
with  the  meretricious  embellishments  of 
the  city  ladies,  who  would  fain  enhance 
their  fading  fascinations  by  cosmetics 
and  cold  cream.  There  is  a  glamour  of 
love  which  makes  John  see  the  golden 
halo  of  a  Madonna  in  the  carroty  hair  of 
Mary  Jane;  but  the  poet  declares  his 
vision  to  be  untinged  by  any  such  be- 
neficent illusions  and  illuminations  of 
personal  affection,  of  which  the  fair  girl 
is  as  independent  as  a  fine  complexion 
is  of  rouge  or  pearl  powder. 

"My  loved  one's  beauty  has  no  need  of  an  imper- 
fect love  like  mine : 

By  paint  or  powder,  mole  or  streak,  caa  a  fair 
face  more  brightly  shine  ?  " 

Persian  women  adorn  their  faces  with 
artificial  moles  or  beauty  spots  of  a  per- 
manent character  by  tattooing  them- 
selves with  a  mixture  of  chelidonium 
(zard-chub,  yellow  wood)  and  charcoal. 
Erasible  moles  are  made  with  pitch  or 


Etffiz  of  SUrdz. 


oxide  of  antimony,  put  on  by  means  of 
a  wooden  pin  (khati  khattdi).  Pulver- 
ized antimony  is  also  used  to  form 
streaks  on  the  eyelids,  and  a  paste  of 
indigo  to  pencil  the  eyebrows.  Such 
streaks  or  lines  are  called  khat,  which 
Rosenzweig  incorrectly  translates  Flaum 
(down).  Muhammadan  scholiasts  of  the 
mystical  school  interpret  the  powder, 
paint,  moles,  and  streaks  symbolically, 
as  referring  to  the  ink,  color,  dots,  and 
lines  of  the  Kur'an,  the  face  of  beauty 
being  typical  of  the  sacred  page.  In 
all  the  dry  and  dusty  tomes  of  Christian 
hermeneutics  it  would  be  difficult  to  find 
absurder  specimens  of  far-fetched,  fine- 
spun, and  fantastic  exegesis  and  subtlety 
of  scriptural  exposition  than  are  con- 
stantly met  with  in  the  writings  of  Mus- 
ulmanic  doctors  and  commentators  on 
the  prophet's  word. 

An  interesting  and  characteristic  an- 
ecdote is  related  in  connection  with  this 
ode.  When,  in  1887,  Timur  conquered 
Fars  and  captured  Shiraz,  he  summoned 
the  aged  Hafiz  into  his  presence,  and 
said,  "  I  have  destroyed  the  mightiest 
kingdoms  of  the  earth  with  the  edge  of 
my  sword,  in  order  to  enrich  and  enlarge 
the  two  chief  cities  of  my  native  land, 
Bukhara  and  Samarkand  ;  and  you  pre- 
sume to  offer  them  both  for  a  black  mole 
on  your  Beloved's  cheek  ! "  "  Sire,"  re- 
plied the  poet,  "  it  is  by  such  acts  of 
reckless  generosity  that  I  am  reduced  to 
the  state  of  poverty  in  which  you  now 
behold  me."  This  witty  retort  so  pleased 
the  Tatar  chief  that  he  immediately  re- 
lieved the  hypothetical  poverty  so  art- 
fully hinted  at,  and  showed  the  poet 
many  marks  of  favor. 

Hafiz  died,  as  we  have  already  stated, 
A.  H.  791,  corresponding  to  A.  D.  1388. 
In  the  chronogram  engraved  on  the  ala- 
baster slab  which  covers  his  tomb,  the 
reader  is  told  to  seek  the  date  in  the 
Earth  of  Musalla  (Khaki  Musalla)  ;  and 
by  summing  up  the  numerical  value  of 
the  letters  in  this  phrase,  kh  600 -|- a  1 
90 -j- 130  + a  (ye) 

10  =  791,  we  ascertain  the  year  of  his 
decease.  Bicknell  englishes  this  chro- 
nogram very  ingeniously  as  follows  :  — 

"  On  spiritual  men  the  lamp  of  Hafiz  gleamed ; 

'Mid  rays  from  Glory's  Light  his  brilliant  taper 
beamed ; 

Musalla  was  his  home:  a  mournful  date  to 

Thrice  take  thou  from  Mutalla's  Earth  Its  Rich- 
est Grain." 

The  numerical  value  of  the  letters  con- 
tained in  Musalla's  Earth  is  M  1000-|- 
L  50-f-L  50=  1100;  from  this  sum 
take  three  times  the  numerical  value  of 
the  letters  in  Its  Richest  Grain  :  I  1  -|- 
I  1-f-C  100 -f  I  1  =  103X3  =  309, 
and  the  result  is  791.  Mediaeval  writers 
were  very  fond  of  composing  eteostics, 
especially  for  inscriptions  and  epitaphs  ; 
but  Latin,  having  only  seven  numerical 
letters,  did  not  afford  them  much  scope 
for  the  exhibition  of  their  skill ;  whereas, 
in  Persian  and  Arabic,  every  letter  of 
the  alphabet  has  a  numerical  value. 
Hafiz  wrote  quite  a  number  of  chrono- 
grams for  the  purpose  of  commemorat- 
ing the  virtues  and  recording  the  death- 
date  of  his  friends  and  patrons.  These 
monumental  verses  have  been  translat- 
ed by  Bicknell  in  a  most  ingenious  and 
felicitous  manner.  Indeed,  his  version 
is  the  only  one  in  which  any  attempt  is 
made  to  preserve  the  chronogrammatic 
character  of  the  original ;  and  it  is  in 
this  peculiar  feature  that  the  whole  point 
of  the  poem  centres  and  consists.  Nes- 
selmann  omits  them  entirely  as  untrans- 

In  consequence  of  Hafiz's  outspoken 
antagonism  to  the  popular  religion,  and 
the  skeptical  and  scoffing  tone  which 
pervades  his  poems,  the  priests  refused 
to  give  him  religious  burial.  This  big- 
otry naturally  excited  the  indignation  of 
his  friends  and  admirers,  and  a  serious 
strife  arose  between  them  and  the  ortho- 
dox party.  After  much  bitter  alterca- 
tion, it  was  agreed  to  consult  his  Divan 
as  an  oracle,  and  to  accept  the  result  as 
a  divine  decision.  The  volume  opened 
at  the  following  couplet :  — 


Hdfiz  of  Shirdz. 


"  Wish  not  to  turn  thy  foot  from  Hafiz  on  his 


He  shall  ascend  to  Paradise,  though  steeped  in 
sin  while  here." 

Accordingly  the  customary  prayers  were 
perfunctorily  recited  at  his  grave,  in 
the  little  cemetery  in  the  northern  sub- 
urb of  Shiraz,  where  his  body  lies  sur- 
rounded by  the  flowers  and  shaded  by 
the  cypresses  so  often  celebrated  in  his 
songs.  There,  too,  the  youth  of  his  na- 
tive city  still  meet,  in  the  cool  of  the 
day,  to  read  his  verses  and  quaff  to  his 

"  that  cup  of  ruby  sheen, 
Which  opens  wide  the  gates  of  times  serene." 

On  his  tombstone  are  embossed  two 
odes  from  the  Divan,  in  one  of  which 
he  enjoins  upon  those  who  come  to  sit 
at  his  tomb  to  bring  with  them  minstrels 
and  the  wine-cup. 

The  wide  popularity  of  Hafiz's  writ- 
ings, and  the  deep  root  they  had  taken 
in  the  hearts  of  all  classes  and  condi- 
tions of  men,  from  the  king  to  the  cot- 
tager, futilized  all  efforts  to  eradicate 
their  influence.  The  only  alternative, 
then,  was  to  direct  it  into  safe  channels, 
and  to  make  the  well-springs  of  his  poe- 
sy serviceable  in  irrigating  and  fertiliz- 
ing the  arid  fields  of  Islam.  The  very 
bigots,  who  had  raised  such  a  storm 
about  his  interment,  now  endeavored  to 
convert  him  into  an  upholder  of  the 
faith  and  a  champion  of  the  established 
religion,  by  giving  to  his  poems  a  sym- 
bolical and  spiritual  interpretation,  such 
as  our  biblical  expositors  have  given  to 
Solomon's  passion  for  the  beautiful  Shu- 
lamite.  The  confessed  wine-bibber  is 
thus  transformed  into  a  seer ;  and  his 
admiration  of  musky  locks  and  dark 
moles,  of  dimpled  chins  and  cypress 
forms,  is  explained  as  an  ardent  aspira- 
tion of  the  soul  after  divine  and  eternal 
beauty.  Even  when  the  poet  declares 
that  the  wine  he  prizes  is  "  real,  and 
not  symbolic,"  the  cunning  exegete  is 
not  to  be  deceived  by  such  plain  state- 
ments ;  for  if  the  only  realities  are  spir- 

itualities, which   none   can   deny,   real 
wine  must  mean  spiritual  wine. 
"Well  said,  old  mole!  canst  work  i'  the  earth  so 

The  more  one  would  force  him  into  day 
by  thrusting  sharp-pointed  facts  under 
his  nose,  the  deeper  he  burrows  under 
them,  losing  himself  in  mazes  of  his 
own  making.  Where  Hafiz  frankly  ad- 
mits his  extreme  and  fatal  susceptibility 
to  tender  emotions  by  comparing  him- 
self to  "  the  taper  made  to  burn  and 
melt,"  the  keen-eyed  and  subtle  scholi- 
ast discerns  the  fervent  piety  and  con- 
suming devotion  of  an  ecstatically  relig- 
ious nature.  It  was  in  this  style  that 
Hafiz's  works  continued  to  be  expound- 
ed and  perverted  for  two  centuries  after 
his  death,  the  commentators  Shami  and 
Sururi  having  attained  especial  distinc- 
tion for  their  exegetical  ingenuity  and 
temerity.  In  the  latter  half  of  the  six- 
teenth century  the  Bosnian  grammarian 
Sudi  annotated  the  Dwan,  and  explained 
the  ghazals  in  a  sober,  rational  manner, 
without  seeking  to  refine  away  every 
carnal  element  and  every  confession  of 
natural  feeling,  and  to  subtilize  the 
glowing  sensuousness  of  these  lyrics  into 
vapid  and  vaporous  allegory.  Sudi,  on 
the  other  hand,  with  all  his  sturdy  sense 
and  the  real  aid  he  affords  in  the  solu- 
tion of  grammatical  and  lexical  difficul- 
ties, often  carries  his  literalism  too  far, 
and  is  prone,  as  he  plods  along,  to  stum- 
ble upon  mare's  nests  of  quite  an  oppo- 
site kind  ;  as,  for  example,  when  he  in- 
fers from  the  following  quatrain  that 
Hafiz  was  afflicted  with  blear  eyes  :  — 

"My  tear,  like  iny  friend's  cheek,  had  rose-red 


In  my  eye's  orbit  was  my  heart's  blood  shown : 
Said  then  my  loved  in  most  endearing  tone, 
'  Dear  friend,  what  makes  thine  eye  this  ailment 
own  V ' " 

It  is  always  interesting  to  discover 
hints  of  an  author's  life  and  personality 
in  his  writings ;  but  in  reconstructing 
the  man  out  of  such  materials,  imagery 
•  must  not  be  mistaken  for  incident,  nor 
tropes  converted  into  individual  traits ; 


Hdfa  of  Sliirdz. 


otherwise  we  shall  get  a  mere  patchwork 
of  metaphors,  —  a  creature  fantastically 
put  together  out  of  the  airy  nothings 
which  his  own  imagination  has  bodied 
forth,  and  in  whom  psychical  affections 
are  confounded  with  physical  disorders, 
and  the  tearful  humor  of  unrequited 
love  identified  with  rheumy  eyes.  Else- 
where Hafiz  ascribes  his  "  bloody  tear  " 
to  "  love's  smart,"  the  only  remedy  for 
which,  say  the  physicians,  is  cautery, 
"  the  burning  of  thy  heart."  In  another 
verse  the  poet  complains  of  "  a  giddy 
head  ; "  must  we  therefore  infer  that  he 
was  subject  to  vertigo  or  epilepsy  ? 

Jaini,  in  his  sketches  of  eminent  men, 
written  early  in  the  fifteenth  century, 
numbers  Hafiz  among  the  great  doctors 
of  theology,  and  gives  him  such  com- 
plimentary and  characteristic  titles  as 
Lisan  al  Shaib  (tongue  of  the  unseen) 
and  Tarjaman  al  Asrar  (interpreter  of 
secrets).  His  Hafiz  is  hafizu  kalamu- 
'llah,  the  keeper  of  the  word  of  God. 
But  the  rigid  representatives  of  Muham- 
madan  orthodoxy  refused  to  recognize 
this  claim.  Ottoman  zealots  were  par- 
ticularly severe  and  uncompromising  in 
their  condemnation  of  the  Divan,  and 
wished  to  have  the  reading  of  it  pro- 
hibited by  a  decree  of  the  Shaikhu  '1  Is- 
lam. As  the  result  of  this  agitation,  the 
case  was  submitted  to  the  celebrated 
Mut'ti,  Abu  Su-ud,  who,  in  a  grave  and 
perfunctory  manner,  framed  his  decision 
so  equivocally  as  to  save  his  own  repu- 
tation for  soundness  in  the  faith,  and  at 
the  same  time,  prevent  the  interdiction 
of  the  poet's  works  and  rebuke  the  fa- 
naticism of  his  Turkish  persecutors. 

In  later  life,  Hafiz  was  associated  with 
the  Sul'is,  whose  ascetic  practices  and 
saintly  pretensions  he  never  ceased. to 
ridicule,  but  with  whose  speculative 
opinions  he  strongly  sympathized.  This 
sect  derived  its  name  from  the  coarse 
garments  of  wool  (suf)  worn  by  its 
members.  Sufi  has  no  radical  connec- 
tion either  with  the  Greek  o-o<£os  (wise) 
or  the  Arabic  safi  (pure)  ;  its  relation 

to  these  words  is  that  of  a  pun  rather 
than  of  an  etymology.  It  is  now  used 
chiefly  in  the  sense  of  "  wise  "  or  "  spir- 
itual ;  "  but  this  is  really  a  secondary 
signification,  originating  in  the  presumed 
character  of  those  who  bore  the  name. 
''  Wool-clad  "  came  to  be  synonymous 
with  "  sage,"  as  in  England  "  gowns- 
man "  is  equivalent  to  "  scholar." 

Hafiz  was  also,  at  one  time,  a  profes- 
sor of  exegesis,  and  lectured  on  Zamakh- 
shari's  commentary  on  the  Kur'an  in  a 
college  founded  by  his  friend  and  patron, 
the  Vazir  Kivam  ud  Din  Hasan,  whose 
virtues  he  commemorates  in  several 
odes.  The  Vazir  had  himself  annotated 
Zamakhshari,  and  doubtless  overper- 
suaded  the  poet  to  undertake  the  same 
task.  But  Hafiz  found  little  relish  in 
ruminating  the  dry  subtilties  of  herme- 
neutics,  whose  sapless  husks  yielded  him 
the  scantiest  supply  of  nutriment.  He 
was  not  one  of  those  dryasdust  organ- 
isms that  can  keep  up  the  intellectual 
life  by  chewing  on  scholia,  as  an  ass 
thrives  on  thistles  ;  but  a  real  child  of 
Nature,  bound  umbilically  to  her  ever- 
throbbing  and  all-sustaining  heart.  Thus 
he  exclaims,  — 

"Ask  for  a  song-book,  seek  the  wild,  no  time  is 

this  for  knowledge ; 

The  Comment  of  the  Comments  spurn,  and  learn- 
ing of  the  college." 

And  again,  — 

"  Where  bides  the  minstrel  ?  For  at  once  my  zeal 

and  learning's  meed 
I  offer  for  the  harp  and  lyre,  and  the  melodious 

Of  the   nice  points   the   school  propounds   my 

heart  has  weary  grown ; 
My  service  for  a  while  I  'd  give  to  wine  and  love 


In  one  of  the  fragments  he  suggests  the 
propriety  of  a  stipend  for  his  profes- 
sional services,  a  point  which  the  Vazir, 
in  his  zeal  for  sacred  exposition,  seems 
to  have  overlooked.  Nevertheless,  Ha- 
fiz's  lyric  muse  did  not  disdain  to  visit 
him  even  in  his  chair  of  hermeneutics. 
It  was  in  the  quiet  retirement  of  this 
school  that  he  recited  many  of  his  poems 
to  his  pupils,  to  whose  youthful  euthusi- 


Hdfiz  of  SMrdz. 


asm  and  care  we  owe  the  first  collection 
of  them  in  a  Divan. 

Hafiz  never  tires  of  denouncing  the 
pietists  and  devotees  of  his  day.  He 
compares  them  to  jugglers,  who  live  by 
imposture,  and  prey  upon  the  credulous 
and  simple-minded,  and  characterizes 
them  as  "  men  with  short  sleeves  aud 
long  fingers."  The  robe  of  the  dervish 
is  the  raiment  of  deceit,  and  the  monk's 
cowl  the  covert  of  guile.  The  wine- 
bibber  is  uniformly  set  in  favorable  con- 
trast to  these  sanctimonious  hypocrites. 

"  Better  the  drunkard  void  of  fraud  and  wiles 
Than  virtue's  braggart  who  by  fraud  beguiles." 

Since  indulgence  in  wine  is  opposed  by 
religious  fanatics,  who  make  a  mask  of 
sobriety,  it  becomes  associated  with  the 
honest  and  generous  qualities  in  which 
the  blue-clad  bigot  is  notoriously  want- 

"  My  heart  abhors  the  cloister  and  the  false  cowl, 

its  sign : 

Where  is  the  Magian's  cloister,1  and  where  is 
his  pure  wine  V  " 

According  to  Persian  tradition,  Jam- 
shid,  the  founder  of  Persepolis,  was  the 

"  Bacchus  that  first  from  out  the  purple  grape 
Crushed  the  sweet  poison  of  misused  wine." 

This  famous  monarch  was  excessively 
fond  of  grapes,  and  always  kept  a  quan- 
tity in  a  jar.-  One  day,  on  returning 
from  the  hunt,  he  found  his  favorite 
fruit  in  a  state  of  fermentation.  The 
pungent  flavor  of  the  juice  excited  his 
suspicions  of  foul  play :  he  therefore 
poured  it  into  a  demijohn  labeled  "  Poi- 
son," and  placed  it  aside  until  he  should 
discover  the  author  of  the  misdeed. 
Soon  afterwards,  a  lady  of  the  court, 
who  suffered  severely  from  chronic  ner- 
vous headache,  resolved,  in  a  fit  of  des- 
peration, to  put  an  end  to  her  existence. 
As  she  wandered  about,  "  distraught 
and  full  of  pain,"  she  found  the  dem- 
ijohn, and  drank  freely  of  its  contents. 
Thereupon  she  fell  into  a  deep  sleep, 

l  Dairi  muyhdn,  the  tavern,  the  temple  of  the 
sincere  and  single-minded,  in  contrast  to  the  mon- 
astery, the  abode  of  vile  and  venal  souls. 

from  which  she  awoke  so  refreshed  that 
she  continued  from  time  to  time  to  sip 
the  beneficent  bane,  until  it  was  all  gone. 
The  complete  recovery  of  the  lady  from 
her  inveterate  ailment  led  to  an  inves- 
tigation of  the  cause,  and  she  finally 
confessed  by  what  delicious  potion  her 
health  had  been  restored.  Orders  were 
immediately  given  for  the  fermentation 
of  more  grapes,  and  the  king  and  his 
courtiers  grew  merry  and  mellow,  as 
they  imbibed  the  wonderful  beverage, 
which  was  henceforth  known  as  zahri 
khush,  or  sweet  poison. 

The  fondness  of  the  Persians  for 
wine  has  always  been  a  great  and  scan- 
dalous offense  to  rigorous  Musulmans. 
Thus  Hafiz,  in  The  Cupbearer's  Book 
exclaims,  — 

"  If  lives  the  body  when  the  soul  is  gone, 
The  heart  bereft  of  wine  can  still  live  on." 

The  loveliest  forms  and  phenomena  of 
earth  and  sky,  the  dawn,  the  dewdrop 
on  the  tulip,  the  hues  and  fragrance  of 
flowers,  all  suggest  the  cheering  and  in- 
ebriating cup,  and  invite  to  indulgence. 
When  his  last  hour  comes,  he  hopes 
that  he  may  be  found  with  a  goblet  in 
his  hand,  and  be  borne  straight  from  the 
tavern  to  the  sky  ;  and  desires  that  after 
death  his  clay  may  be  fashioned  into 
flagons,  and  his  skull,  in  the  form  of  a 
beaker,  continue  to  be  a  source  of  in- 
spiring and  elevating  influence.  In  this 
wish  'Umar  al  Khayyam  anticipated 
Hafiz  by  three  centuries,  when  he  de- 
clared that  at  the  sound  of  the  "  wake- 
ful trump  "  his  dust  would  rise  up  be- 
fore the  door  of  the  wine-shop ;  and  the 
old  Anglo-Latin  poet,  Walter  Mappes, 
a  con  temporary  of  Khayyam,  begins  his 
well-known  drinking-song  with  the  same 
conceit :  — 

"Milri  est  propositum  in  taberna  mori; 
Vinum  sit  appositum  morientis  ori." 

Persian  vintners  are  usually  infidels, 
sometimes  Christians,  but  chiefly  Ma- 
gians,  since  no  true  believer  would  vend 
a  drink  denounced  by  the  Prophet  as 
the  mother  of  woes.  Under  love  of 


Hdfiz  of  Shirdz. 


wine,  therefore,  might  be  easily  con- 
cealed a  tendency  to  heresy,  and  espe- 
cially an  attachment  to  old  Persian  fire- 
worship.  Drinking  the  blood  of  the 
grape,  under  such  circumstances,  would 
have  a  sacramental  significance.  It 
would  be  not  merely  a  physical  enjoy- 
ment, a  pleasure  of  the  palate,  but  also 
a  religious  act,  a  protest  of  the  con- 
science, a  solemn  declaration  of  devotion 
to  the  faith  of  the  fathers.  Thus  the 
tavern  becomes  a  temple  of  the  Magi,  a 
place  filled  with  the  light  of  God ;  the 
vintner  is  a  high-priest  of  the  Magi, 
whose  wisdom  is  superior  in  kind  to  that 
of  "  mine  host  of  the  Garter  Inn,"  as 
the  ministrations  of  the  Said  differ  es- 
sentially from  those  of  a  "  drawer  in 
the  Boar's  Head  Tavern." 

In  every  country  whem  there  is  a 
state  religion,  all  deviations  from  it,  all 
sects  and  schisms,  are  regarded  as  so 
many  revolts  against  spiritual  tyranny, 
and  so  many  assertions  of  intellectual 
liberty.  This  is  the  position  held  in 
Muhammadan  Persia  by  Christianity 
and  Magianism,  both  of  which  are  in- 
clined to  strain  a  point  in  praise  of  wine, 
merely  because  the  Kur'an  prohibits 
it.  Thus  wine-bibbing  becomes  a  syno- 
nym of  free -thinking.  The  wine -shop 
is  something  more  than  a  common  tap- 
room, and  combines  the  cabaret  with 
the  chapel  of  dissent.  The  reader  who 
fails  to  perceive  this  esoteric  significance 
and  underlying  symbolism  will  natural- 
ly wonder  at  the  poet's  constant  and 
rather  monotonous  glorification  of  wine, 
and  soon  weary  of  it. 

The  intimate  connection  between  fire- 
worship  and  wine-drinking  is  suggested 
by  Hafiz  when  he  speaks  of  wine  as 
the  "  fulgent  fire,"  which  Zarathushtra 
sought  in  the  depths  below  ;  and  in  the 
same  poem  he  exclaims,  — 

'  0  Saki,  give  me  that  imperial  bowl, 
Which  opes  the  heart,  exhilarates  the  soul. 
By  '  bowl '  I  image  the  eternal  wine ; 
By  '  wine  '  I  signify  a  trance  divine." 

In    the   vocabulary   of    Sufism,    the 

Saki  (cup-bearer)  stands  for  the  Holy 
Ghost,  the  source  of  spiritual  enlight- 
enment and  inspiration  ;  and  to  "  stain 
the  prayer-mat  with  wine  "is  to  imbue 
the  heart  with  divine  love.  Indeed,  this 
symbolism  is  not  confined  to  Persia  and 
the  East,  but  pervades,  though  less  effu- 
sively, the  poetry  and  religion  of  every 
people.  Bread  and  wine,  the  cornfield 
and  the  vineyard,  Demeter  and  Dionysus, 
are  universal  emblems  and  personifica- 
tions of  human  sustenance  and  cheer. 
Religious  exaltation  and  enthusiasm,  the 
rapture  of  the  sibyl  and  the  ecstasy  of 
the  saint,  are  suggestive  of  vinous  in- 
toxication. When  the  disciples  were 
full  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  on  the  day  of 
Pentecost, '  they  were  thought  to  be 
drunk ;  and  in  the  Christian  ritual  the 
blood  of  the  grape  is  associated  with 
the  supreme  moment  and  sacrificial  con- 
summation of  the  world's  spiritual  re- 

The  Persians  call  wine  utishi  raz,  the 
fire  of  the  vine,  and  the  Greeks  called 
Dionysus  Trvpiyenys,  the  fire-born,  —  an 
epithet  which  does  not  need  for  its  ex- 
planation the  silly  story  of  the  untimely 
birth  of  the  god  through  the  fright  of  his 
mother  Semele,  at  the  sudden  apparition 
of  her  lover,  Zeus,  in  the  form  of  light- 

In  the  Lieder  des  Mirza-Schaffy,  Bo- 
denstedt  expresses  a  thoroughly  Persian 
thought,  when  he  says  that  wine  is  de- 
grading or  ennobling,  according  to  the 
nature  of  him  who  takes  it.  '  Where  is 
it  said  that  wine  is  wrong  for  all  ? " 
exclaims  'Umar  al  Khayyam. 

"'Tis  lawful  for  the  wise,  but  not  for  fools." 
It  was  to  the  "  Magian  Shaikh,"  who 
read  the  secrets  of  the  sky  in  Jamshid's 
magic  cup,  that  Hafiz  appealed  in  the- 
ological perplexities  and  questions  of 
casuistry.  Weariness  of  robe  and  rosary, 
and  willingness  to  pawn  his  cowl  for  an 
intoxicating  draught  and  to  souse  his 
book  into  the  wine-butt,  are  explained 
by  Sufi  exegetes  as  expressing  his  dis- 
gust for  outward  ceremonial  in  worship 


Hdfiz  of  Shirdz. 


and  barren  traditionalism  in  theology; 
whilst  under  the  imagery  of  riot  and 
revelry  is  represented  spiritual  aspira- 
tion. In  Sufi  phraseology  the  musky 
locks  of  the  loved  one  are  emanations 
and  expansions  of  divine  glory,  redolent 
with  celestial  perfume.  The  closest  union 
and  most  sacred  covenant  of  the  soul 
with  the  Supreme  Spirit  are  symbol- 
ized by  betrothal  and  nuptial  ties.  The 
purest  and  most  poetic  expression  of 
this  phase  of  Sufism  is  found  in  Sa'di's 
Bustan,  especially  in  the  third  chapter, 
and  in  the  Masnawi  of  Maulana  palalu- 
d-Din  Rumi. 

Doubtless  some  of  Hafiz's  odes,  con- 
vivial songs  as  well  as  love-poems,  ad- 
mit and  even  require  a  mystical  inter- 
pretation. In  the  one  hundred  and 
eighty-sixth  ghazal,  for  example,  bright 
cheeks,  alluring  dimples,  languishing 
eyes,  and  wanton  ringlets  are  intended 
to  typify  divine  attributes.  In  such 
cases  the  two  elements  are  so  closely 
blended  that  it  is  hard  to  separate  them, 
and  to  distinguish  the  natural  from  the 
figurative,  the  earthly  from  the  heaven- 
ly, the  warm  hues  of  carnal  affection 
from  the  glowing  fervor  of  religious  ad- 
oration. But  in  the  majority  of  Hafiz's 
poems  the  sense  is  plain  enough,  and 
the  keenest  scholastic  subtilty  would 
find  it  as  difficult  to  detect  an  esoteric 
meaning  in  them  as  to  discover  sublime 
mysteries  and  theosophics  in  the  odes  of 
Horace,  the  lyrics  of  Anakreon,  or  the 
songs  of  Burns. 

Indeed,  there  is  in  Hafiz  a  constant 
tendency  to  reverse  the  symbolical  meth- 
od ;  instead  of  spiritualizing  objects  of 
sense  and  making  them  the  vehicle  of 
religious  sentiment,  he  is  fond  of  carnal- 
izing sacred  things,  and  using  them  to 
justify  natural  appetites  and  to  exalt 
earthly  affections.  The  Mecca  to  which 
he  pilgrims  is  the  vintry  ;  his  Ka'ba  is 
the  wine-cup;  the  arch  of  Mihnib,  which 
attracts  and  directs  his  devotions,  is 
"  an  eyebrow's  bow."  When  'Umar  al 
Khayyam  was  urged  to  renounce  the 

pleasures  of  this  life  in  order  to  inherit 
the  joys  of  the  life  to  come,  he  replied 
that  a  little  cash  in  hand  was  better 
than  any  amount  of  credit.  Hafiz,  too, 
was  not  disposed  to  wait  for  the  sky  to 
fall  in  order  to  catch  larks.  "  Strive  al- 
ways after  ready  bliss,"  was  his  motto. 
The  fowler  who  lays  his  snare  for  the 
phcEiiix  will  take  only  empty  air.  In 
many  passages  he  compares  the  stature 
of  his  beloved  to  the  graceful  cypress, 
which  he  prefers  to  the  Sidrah  and  the 
Tuba,  and  all  the  celestial  trees  that 
afford  shade  and  refreshment  to  the 
elect  in  Paradise. 

Hafiz  often  gives  a  facetious  turn  to 
texts  from  the  Kur'an,  and  makes  jest- 
ing allusion  to  its  chief  doctrines.  Thus, 
in  reply  to  the  reproaches  of  the  zealot, 
he  adduces  the  zealot's  creed,  and  ex- 
cuses his  propensity  to  tippling  by  ap- 
pealing to  the  dogma  of  predestination, 
which  is  one  of  the  fundamentals  of 
Islam.  On  the  Day  of  Alast,  the  All- 
Wise  One  foreordained  him  to  love  wo- 
man, wine,  and  song ;  and  what  is  feeble 
and  short-sighted  man  that  he  should 
presume  to  thwart  eternal  providence 
and  annul  the  divine  decrees  ?  He  takes 
particular  delight  in  playing  upon  the 
catch-words  of  the  sects  and  the  termi- 
nology of  pious  cant :  — 

"  Come,  Hafiz,  to  the  house  of  wine,  and  I  will 

show  thee  there 

Thousands  of  men,  who,  ranged  in  line,  rejoice 
in  answered  prayer." 

Less  irreverent,  of  course,  to  the  Mu- 
hammadan  than  to  the  Christian  mind 
would  be  the  comparison  of  the  power 
of  wine  or  of  love  to  the  resuscitating 
breath  of  Jesus  that  can  restore  the  dead 
to  life. 

Hafiz  sums  up  his  ethics  in  a  short 
and  comprehensive  couplet  intelligible 
even  to  the  meanest  understanding :  — 

"  Harm  no  one;  otherwise  do  all  thou  wilt: 
My  statutes  recognize  no  other  guilt." 

This  simple  rule  of  universal  kindness 
implies  also  the  largest  tolerance.  Pan- 
theism has  no  motive  for  proselytism 


Hdfiz  of  SMrdz. 


and  no  place  for  persecution.  Diversity 
of  speculative  opinion  is  not  an  ele- 
ment of  discord,  but  a  source  of  pleasing 
variety  and  a  stimulus  to  intellectual 

"  For  none  in  our  drunk  rev'lers'  sect  inquire 
Who  worship  matter  and  who  worship  tire." 

"One  to  love's  eyes  the  cell  and  wine -house 


Whate'er  the  spot,  the  Friend's  bright  features 

"  Where  in  the  convent  pious  works  abound, 
The   cross   and   the  monk's    cloister   bell   are 

In  the  same  spirit,  Khayyam  asserts 
his  superiority  to  sectarian  shibboleths, 
and  reverences  mosques  and  pagodas, 
synagogues  and  churches  alike,  as  holy 
temples  and  "  true  homes  of  prayer." 

But  while  Persian  poets  and  mystics 
were  proclaiming  these  liberal  ideas,  and 
opening  world  -  wide  the  doors  of  spir- 
itual hospitality,  in  Europe  popes  and 
bishops,  synods  and  ecclesiastical  coun- 
cils, were  rooting  out  heresy  with  sword 
and  fagot,  and  the  chief  countries  of 
Christendom  were  ablaze  with  the  bale- 
ful fires  of  the  Inquisition.  It  was 
Khayyam,  too,  who  said  that  of  all  the 
dogmas  taught  by  the  three  and  seventy 
sects  of  Islam  he  accepted  only  one, — 
the  love  of  God.  And  for  centuries 
after  him  sentiments  and  principles  like 
these,  which  the  comparative  science  of 
religion  has  but  recently  made  familiar 
to  the  Western  mind,  were  repeated  and 
enforced  by  seers  and  sages,  until  they 
became  a  part  of  the  aphoristic  and  ax- 
iomatic wisdom  of  the  East. 

Like  all  Eastern  poets,  Hafiz  is  ex- 
ceedingly repetitious,  both  as  regards 
ideas  and  imagery.  The  Greeks  used 
to  say,  Give  us  your  fine  things  two  or 
three  times.  But  the  Persians  would 
deem  it  undue  rigor  and  irksome  re- 
straint to  be  limited  to  this  moderate 
amount  of  iteration.  They  never  tire 
of  a  fine  thing,  and  reproduce  it  on  every 
possible  occasion.  This  is  preeminently 
true  of  the  lyric  poet,  who  weaves  his 

verses  out  of  the  staple  of  his  internal 
states,  as  the  spider  spins  its  web  out  of 
its  own  vitals.  This  species  of  poetry  is 
therefore  intensely  subjective,  and  con- 
fined to  a  narrow  circle  of  emotions ; 
and  the  perpetual  harping  on  one  string 
makes  even  the  best  of  the  Divans  rath- 
er tiresome  as  consecutive  reading. 

Another  characteristic  of  all  classes 
of  society  in  Persia  is  a  notable  love  of 
nature ;  not  so  much  in  its  wild  and 
rugged  aspects  as  in  its  milder  and  more 
cultivated  forms.  They  have  a  passion 
for  gardens  and  flowers,  quiet  groves 
and  the  soft  cadence  of  murmuring 
brooks ;  and  the  sentiment  of  such  scenes 
pervades  all  their  poesy,  and  is  liable 
to  surfeit  the  Occidental  reader  by  its 
monotony  of  sweetness.  Possibly,  when 
Hafiz  sang  of  the  chaman,  he  may  have 
had  in  mind,  not  a  parterre,  but  a  green 
field  or  stretch  of  lawn  ;  features  which 
to-day  have  almost  wholly  disappeared 
from  the  Persian  landscape,  having 
been  supplanted  by  patches  of  waving 
corn,  bright  with  blue-bottles,  poppies, 
and  grape  hyacinths.  All  these  phenom- 
ena of  the  world  of  sense  are  brought 
into  direct  and  living  relations  with  the 
world  of  the  imagination,  and  made  to 
portray  the  affections  and  to  reflect  the 
desires  of  the  mind.  The  garden  bor- 
rows its  fragrance  and  the  zephyr  its 
perfume  from  the  amber-scented  locks 
of  the  loved  one ;  the  rose  takes  its  col- 
or from  her  cheeks,  and  the  narcissus 
steals  its  languor  from  her  eyes.  Some 
of  the  metaphors  drawn  from  this  source 
are  quite  apt  and  original,  as  when  the 
spark  of  love,  which  has  fallen  into  and 
indelibly  branded  the  poet's  heart,  is 
compared  to  the  deep  puce  mark  which 
the  wild  tulip  of  Shiraz  bears  in  the 
centre  of  its  white  petals. 

In  the  twenty-eighth  quatrain  "  the 
musk -moled  maiden's  heart  is  seen 
through  her  transparent  breast,  like  a 
pebble  in  a  limpid  stream."  Shake- 
speare puts  the  same  words  into  the 
mouth  of  love-sick  Lysander :  — 


Hdfiz  of  Shirdz. 


"  Transparent  Helena!    Nature  shows  her  art 
That  through  thy  bosom  makes  me  see  thy 

It  is  curious  to  note  such  coincidences, 
which  are  the  results,  not  of  accident, 
but  of  intellectual  affinity.  Thus  Ham- 
let asks,  "Why  may  not  imagination 
trace  the  noble  dust  of  Alexander  till 
he  find  it  stopping  a  bung-hole  ?  "  So 
Hafiz  discovers  the  head  of  the  same 
monarch  in  the  tiles  on  the  roof.  And 
Khayyam  saw  mangled  by  a  potter's 

"  Feridun's  fingers  and  Kai  Khosru's  heart." 
He  recognizes  in  the  graceful  handle  of 
the  wine-jug  an  arm  that 
"Has  many  a  time  twined  round  some  slender 
waist;  " 

and  bids  the  reader  tread  lightly  on  the 
common  dust,  since  perchance 
'"Twas  once  the  apple  of  some  beauty's  eye." 
Even  the  lump  of  clay  cries  out  to  him 
who  fashions  it :  — 

"  Use  me  gently,  pray  ; 
I  was  a  man  myself  but  yesterday." 

In  grammatical  construction  the  verses 
of  Hafiz  are  models  of  simplicity  and 
perspicuity.  From  the  standpoint  and 
standard  of  European  criticism,  his  chief 
defects,  which  he  shares  with  all  Per- 
sian poets  except  Firdausi,  are  the  want 
of  rhetorical  sobriety  and  symmetry ;  a 
fondness  for  obscure  allusions  and  far- 
fetched conceits ;  aii  exuberant  and  un 
chastened  imagination,  prone  to  run  riot 
in  mixed  metaphors,  and  to  spin  them 
out  until  they  become  so  attenuated  as 
to  break  down  by  their  own  weight.  His 
motley  tropes,  instead  of  illustrating  the 
subject,  often  tend  to  confuse  the  reader 
by  the  protean  facility  with  which  they 
change  their  shapes,  and  glide  from  one 
image  into  another. 

On  the  principle  of  sympathy  through 
external  similitude,  which  prevails  so 
largely  in  ancient  medicine,  especially 
in  the  branch  of  philter  lore,  he  speaks 
of  his  "  pine-cone  heart  "  as  longing  for 
reunion  with  the  "  pine-like  stature  "  of 
his  friend.  Even  indigo  is  personified 

as  an  archer,  because  it  "  draws  a  bow  " 
over  the  arch  of  the  eyebrows,  from 
which  the  fatal  arrows  of  love  are  sped. 
An  oft-recurring  figure  of  speech,  de- 
rived from  the  Oriental  pharmacopeia, 
It  to  call  red  lips  "  ruby  tonic,"  the  ca- 
tholicon  which  can  heal  all  his  ailments. 
He  compares  the  lock  resting  on  the 
cheek,  and  turning  up  at  the  end  to  a 
hook,  which  he  longs  for  as  he  takes  to 
the  sea.  The  wee  mouth  of  his  maiden 
"  sweetly  proves  "  the  truth  of  the  atom- 
ical  philosophy.  He  dwells  with  glee 
upon  her  tiny  waist,  "  no  thicker  than  a 
hair."  Everywhere  in  the  Orient  large 
hips  as  well  as  a  slender  waist  are  re- 
garded as  essential  to  female  beauty. 
In  the  Indian  drama  of  Sakuntala,  the 
royal  lover  recognizes  the  footprints  of 
the  heroine  by  the  depth  to  which  her 
heels  sink  into  the  white  sand,  owing  to 
the  weight  of  her  hips.  Amru,  the  au- 
thor of  the  sixth  Mu'allakat,  describes 
his  lady-love  as  slim  and  tall,  "  with 
gracefully  swelling  hips,  which  the  door 
of  the  tent  is  scarcely  wide  enough  to 
admit."  In  the  Anvari  Subaili  of  Hu- 
sain  Vaiz,  the  enthusiastic  lover  likens 
the  hips  and  waist  of  his  sweetheart  to 
a  mountain  (kuh)  suspended  by  a  straw 
(hah).  German  minnesingers  had  the 
same  ideal  of  female  beauty  so  far  as 
the  waist  is  concerned.  Wolfram  von 
Eschenbach  says  of  a  fair  damsel,  — 

"  You  know  how  ants  are  wont  to  be 
Around  the  middle  slight  and  small : 
Still  slimmer  was  the  maiden  tall." 

The  Greeks  possessed  a  finer  sense  of 
symmetry  than  to  imagine  that  a  wo- 
man should  be  patterned  after  a  wasp 
or  an  emmet  in  order  to  be  a  model  of 

Some  of  Hafiz's  metaphors  strike  us 
as  rather  ignoble.  It  is  not  pleasant  to 
think  of  a  young  girl's  long  eyelashes 
as  daggers  dripping  with  blood  nor  to 
see  ants  in  the  soft  down  of  her  cheeks. 
The  dimple  in  the  chin,  shining  with 
perspiration,  is  a  well-pit,  into  which 
the  passionate  pilgrim  is  liable  to  fall. 


Hdfiz  of  SJdrdz. 


Hafiz's  allusion  to  his  maiden,  with  her 
moon-face  and  moist  dimple,  recalls 
Heine's  description,  in  his  Harzreise,  of 
"  the  large,  voluminous  lady,  with  a  red 
square  mile  of  face,  and  dimples  in  her 
cheeks  which  looked  like  spittoons  for 
Cupid."  It  would  be  difficult  to  decide 
which  of  the  comparisons  is  more  de- 
famatory of  this  most  delicate  and  ef- 
fective feature  of  female  beauty.  The 
Persian  is  certainly  more  matter  of  fact, 
and  lies  under  the  disadvantage  of  not 
intending  to  be  funny. 

Another  peculiarity  of  Oriental  poets, 
always  offensive  to  the  most  refined  Oc- 
cidental taste,  is  the  habit  of  extravagant 
self-praise,  in  which  they  constantly  in- 
dulge. True,  the  same  tendency  shows 
itself  sporadically  in  European  litera- 
ture. Shakespeare  was  fully  conscious 
of  his  genius,  and  knew  the  enduring 
worth  of  his  "powerful  rhyme."  In 
language  almost  identical  with  that  of 
the  Sonnets,  Firdausi,  in  his  satire  on 
Shah  Mahmud,  extols  his  own  epos,  the 
Shah  Niinia  ;  and  Sa'di,  in  the  introduc- 
tion to  the  Gulistau,  expresses  like  con- 
fidence in  the  lastingness  of  his  work. 

In  a  Persian  or  Arab  poet,  self-praise 
is  not  an  individual  idiosyncrasy,  and 
does  not  necessarily  imply  excessive 
self-conceit.  The  very  structure  of  the 
ghazal  requires  the  introduction  of  the 
poet's  name  in  the  final  couplet,  and  this 
mention  of  himself  is  expected  to  be 
laudatory.  Indeed,  the  author  must  ex- 
ercise considerable  ingenuity  and  fertil- 
ity of  invention  in  order  to  avoid  too 
great  monotony  of  self -commendation. 
Heaven,  our  poet  tells  us,  flings  down 
upon  his  poetry  her  "  clustered  Pleia- 
des," in  recognition  of  the  superiority 
of  his  pearls  of  song  to  her  pearly  gar- 
land of  stars,  just  as  opera  fanatics 
throw  laurel-wreaths  to  a  popular  prima 
donna  and  Spanish  ladies  cast  their 
necklaces  at  the  feet  of  a  favorite  torero. 

Self-encomiums  (fakhnydf)  are  treat- 
ed in  Arabian  poetics  as  a  distinct 
and  well-defined  class  of  compositions,  as 

legitimate  as  elegiacs  or  erotics.  AVe 
have  no  more  right  to  infer  that  those 
who  cultivate  this  kind  of  poetry  are 
exceptionally  vain  than  that  every  au- 
thor of  a  drinking-song  is  a  toper,  every 
composer  of  martial  music  a  hero,  and 
every  writer  of  madrigals  a  love-lorn 
swain.  A  fair  specimen  of  this  auto- 
eulogy  is  the  following,  from  Hafiz  :  — 

"  The  beauty  of  these  verses  baffles  praise : 
What  guide  is  needed  in  the  solar  blaze? 
Extol  that  artist  by  v,  hose  pencil's  aid 
The  virgin,  Thought,  so  richly  is  arrayed. 
For  her  no  substitute  can  reason  show, 
Nor  any  like  her  human  judgment  know. 
This  verse,  a  miracle,  or  magic  white  — 
Brought  down  some  voice  from  Heaven,  or  Ga- 
briel bright  ? 

By  me  as  by  none  else  are  secrets  sung, 
No  pearls  of  poesy  like  mine  are  strung." 

Making  due  allowance  for  Oriental 
hyperbole,  every  student  of  Persian  lit- 
erature will  indorse  the  opinion  here 
expressed.  The  age  of  Hafiz  was  that 
of  a  brilliant  galaxy  of  poets,  the  golden 
age  of  lyric  song.  Kamal  (perfect),  the 
author  of  Zephyrs  of  Friendship  (Na- 
fhat  al  Uns),  and  Aimad,  surnamed  the 
"  faultless,"  on  account  of  the  finish  of 
his  style  and  the  purity  of  his  senti- 
ments, were  his  contemporaries.  But 
the  united  suffrages  of  his  countrymen 
and  of  European  scholars  have  assigned 
to  Hafiz  the  foremost  place  in  Persian 
letters,  and  a  permanent  place  among 
the  world's  great  poets.  It  is  not,  how- 
ever, by  an  enumeration  of  isolated 
qualities  that  an  adequate  estimate  can 
be  formed  of  his  rare  and  peculiar  gen- 
ius. He  is  not  to  be  measured,  much 
less  exhausted,  by  an  anthology  of  ele- 
gant extracts.  There  is  in  him,  also,  a 
certain  subtile  and  precious  element  and 
nimble  essence  which  evades  the  cold 
edge  of  the  keenest  critical  analysis. 
"\Vhat  he  says  of  the  manifold  and  in- 
definable sources  of  the  lover's  passion 
is  equally  true  of  the  fascination  exer- 
cised by  his  own  poetry  :  — 

"  'T  is  a  deep  charm  which  wakes  the  lover's 

Not  ruby  lip,  nor  verdant  down  its  name. 


A  Sequel  to  Mr.  Washington  Adams. 


Beaut}'  is  not  the  eye,  look,  cheek,  ana  mole ; 
A  thousand  subtle  points  the  heart  control." 

In  his  works  we  find  preeminently  that 
glowing  interfusion  and  fruitful  espousal 
of  thought  and  phrase  which  is  the  su- 
preme achievement  of  the  creative  im- 

agination, and  which  Goethe  represents 
as  the  wedlock  of  word  and  spirit : — 

Let  the  word  be  called  the  bride  ; 
Bridegroom  let  the  spirit  be ! 
At  this  marriage-feast  abide 
Those  who  prize,  O  Hafiz,  thee. 

E.  P.  Evans. 


MY  friend  Mansfield  Humphreys  has 
written  me  the  following  letter,  which, 
with  some  remorse  of  conscience,  —  in 
the  old  English  phrase,  "  again-bite  of 
inwit,"  —  I  lay  before  the  readers  of 
The  Atlantic  :  — 


21st  October,  1883. 

Everybody  has  gone  to  church,  this 
morning,  as  usual ;  but  as  I  have  been 
there  frequently,  I  made  an  excuse,  and 
remained  at  home:  not,  however,  chiefly 
for  the  reason  which  I  have  assigned, 
but  that  I  might  write  you  this  letter. 

Others  may  pardon  you  for  giving  in 
The  Atlantic  of  July,  1883,  an  account 
of  that  luncheon  party  at  the  Priory  ; 
whether  I  can  do  so,  I  have  not  yet  quite 
determined.  The  story  has  been  read 
here  and  commented  upon  quite  freely  ; 
and  an  Edinburgh  publisher  has  actually 
issued  the  thing  as  a  little  book.  All 
this  would  be  well  enough  ;  but  it  seems 
that  you  so  awkwardly  worded  your 
story  that  some  people  have  suspected, 
and  indeed  do  actually  believe,  that  there 
is  no  Mr.  Washington  Adams,  and  that 
I  —  I,  Mansfield  Humphreys,  —  am  the 
"  real  American "  who  was  the  object 
of  interest  on  that  occasion.  Grievous 
are  the  wounds  received  at  the  hands  of 
a  friend ;  and  your  careless  pen  has 
scratched  me  deeply.  What  will  my 
clients  and  my  fellow  directors  think  of 
my  figuring  in  such  a  masquerade  ?  And 

to  what  grave  misconstruction  on  the 
part  of  our  friends  at  the  Priory  did  you 
expose  me  by  your  thoughtless  ambigu- 
ity of  phrase  !  Pardon  me  for  suggest- 
ing that  it  would  be  well  for  you  to 
serve  a  brief  apprenticeship  in  a  law- 
yer's office,  that  you  may  learn  to  ex- 
press yourself  with  clearness  and  pre- 

Well,  that  will  do,  I  suppose,  for  an 
indignant  protest ;  but  as  to  the  truth 
of  the  affair,  there  is  of  course  no  need 
for  any  words  between  you  and  me.  I 
had  half  a  dozen  hearty  laughs  at  the 
expense  of  Professor  Schlamm  and  the 
rest,  with  some  compunctions,  I  will  con- 
fess, for  bringing  such  a  bear  as  Mr. 
Washington  Adams  into  the  garden  of 
our  charming  hostess ;  of  whose  fine 
womanly  personality  you  must  remem- 
ber that  I,  like  you,  was  before  entire- 
ly ignorant.  For  the  rest  I  cared  little, 
except  perhaps  for  Lord  Toppingham 
himself,  who,  notwithstanding  a  slight 
stiffness  of  the  mental  joints  (with  all 
his  liberalism),  is  one  of  the  cleverest 
and  sweetest-natured  men  1  ever  met. 
But  she,  the  countess,  was  so  serenely 
gentle,  so  divinely  complaisant,  with  all 
her  lovely  dignity  of  mien,  that  I  was 
more  than  once  almost  disconcerted,  and 
came  near  breaking  down.  I  was  kept 
up  by  the  consciousness  of  the  eyes  of 
the  motley  crowd  around  me.  If  she 
and  Lord  Toppingham  only  had  been 
present,  I  verily  believe  that  I  should 


A  Sequel  to  Mr.  Washington  Adams. 


have  fallen  at  her  feet,1  confessed  my  im- 
posture, and  begged  her  pardon.  Would 
she  have  given  it  ?  You  shall  see.  But 
it  is  one  thing  to  play  a  practical  joke 
and  enjoy  it,  and  quite  another  to  have 
one's  escapade  paraded  to  the  world.  I 
have,  however,  this  consolation  :  you  are 
the  chief  sufferer,  and  have  already  been 
pretty  roughly  handled.  The  British 
lion  is  apt  to  growl  and  lash  his  sides, 
and  sometimes  those  of  other  people, 
when  he  discovers  that  men  have  been 
laughing  at  him  behind  sober  faces. 

A  few  days  after  you  had  left  this 
neighborhood,  I  determined  to  call  at  the 
Priory.  I  rode  over ;  and  on  sending 
up  my  card,  I  was  soon  ushered  into 
Lady  Toppingham's  morning  parlor,  — 
a  very  different  sort  of  place  from  the 
corresponding  room  at  Boreham  Hall, 
as  you  described  it.  Although  it  was 
about  as  large  as  an  ordinary  Boston  or 
New  York  drawing-room,  it  produced 
a  sense  of  mingled  daintiness  and  cozi- 
ness.  Why  or  how,  I  can  hardly  tell, 
for  there  was  nothing  unusual  in  it,  — 
nothing  that  you  would  not  find  in  a 
similar  room  in  New  England  or  New 
York  ;  but,  as  in  many  such  rooms  there, 
gentlewoman  and  elegant  comfort  were 
written  all  over  it  in  alternating  inter- 
woven characters.  Lady  Toppingham 
rose  and  gave  me  her  hand,  which,  please 
remember,  if  you  should  ever  venture 
to  write  again  about  the  manners  and 
customs  of  the  inhabitants  of  this  island, 
is,  contrary  to  the  common  notion,  the 
custom  here,  unless  the  caller  does  not 
appear  as  a  social  acquaintance,  and  the 
interview  is  more  or  less  of  a  business 
character.  I  must  confess  that  I  enjoy 
this  distinction,  and  wish  that,  with  some 
other  habits  of  life  in  England,  it  could 
be  carried  into  "  the  States." 

A  nursery-maid  was  standing  half  be- 
hind my  hostess's  chair,  and  on  the  floor, 
playing  about  her  feet,  was  a  boy-baby, 
about  a  year  and  a  half  old,  so  radiant 
with  all  glory  possible  to  infancy  that 

1  On  the  margin :  "metaphorically,  you  know." 

I  can  only  call  him  splendid.  To  antici- 
pate a  little,  in  a  few  minutes  he  was  ou 
my  knee,  alternately  cooing  and  crowing 
and  kicking  and  pulling  my  whiskers, 
until,  after  a  few  fond  maternal  remon- 
strances, he  was  sent  back  to  the  nurse- 
ry. I  found  him  as  firm  and  as  springy 
as  a  just-landed  trout. 

"  Lord  Toppingham  is  out  this  morn- 
ing, shooting,  with  my  cousin,  Captain 
Surcingle,"  said  my  hostess,  as  I  took 
my  seat.  "  I  am  sorry  it  should  have  hap- 
pened so  :  he  does  n't  go  out  quite  so 
often  as  most  men  do  here.  He  will  re- 
gret it  himself.  We  hoped  to  have  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  you  ere  this  at  the 
Priory.  You  have  not  called  before,  I 
believe  ?  "  with  a  slight,  searching  look 
that  flashed  into  my  eye  like  a  reflection 
from  a  mischievous  boy's  bit  of  looking- 

"  No,  madam ;  unless,  indeed,  I  may 
be  considered  to  have  called  after  a  fash- 
ion, when  I  took  the  liberty  of  giving 
my  card  to  Mr.  Washington  Adams." 

"  Mr.  Adams  is  a  friend  of  yours  ?  " 

"  I  can  hardly  call  him  a  friend.  In- 
deed, I  am  inclined  to  think  that  I  have 
many  better  friends  than  he  is.  Hardly 
more  than  a  slight  acquaintance,  I  should 
say  ;  for  I  am  sure  that  many  persons 
know  much  more  of  me  than  he  does, 
and  much  more  of  him  than  I  do." 

"  Then  I  may  venture  to  say,  without 
at  all  implying  that  his  call  was  unin- 
teresting, that  he  is  a  very  extraordinary 
person.  Have  you  many  men  of  his 
sort  in  the  States  ?  " 

"  Too  many  of  his  sort,  I  must  con- 
fess ;  although  not  many  quite  so  pro- 
nounced in  style  as  he  is.  I  fear  you 
may  have  found  him  somewhat  rude." 

"  Not  in  the  least,  if  rudeness  con- 
sists in  offensive  intention.  He  was  very 
well  meaning,  very  considerate,  and  very 
self-possessed.  But  he  appeared  to  be 
quite  ignorant  of  what  we  should  call  the 
ways  of  society.  Did  you  ever  happen 
to  see  Mr.  Adams  in  society,  Mr.  Hum- 
phreys ?  " 


A  Sequel  to  Mr.  Washington  Adams. 


"  Indeed,  madam,  I  can't  say  that  I 
ever  did ;  and  you  must  therefore  par- 
don me  if  you  were  a  little  shocked." 
This  I  said  in  a  careless,  smiling  way ; 
but  I  felt  that  the  feminine  toils  were 
closing  round  me.  For  that,  however, 
I  was  prepared  in  a  measure,  or  I  should 
not  have  ventured  into  the  lioness's  den. 
For  Lady  Toppingham  alone,  I  believe, 
of  all  the  company,  was  quite  sure  that 
something  was  wrong. 

You  may  wonder  that  such  an  extrav- 
agant creature  as  my  Mr.  Washington 
Adams,  one  who  in  Boston  or  Philadel- 
phia, or  hardly  in  Chicago,  could  not  be 
found  with  a  lantern,  should  pass  muster 
among  people  of  ordinary  information, 
in  any  part  of  Europe,  as  a  representa- 
tive American,  on  five  minutes'  inspec- 
tion. But  if  you  do  so  wonder,  you 
merely  show  that  you  have  failed  to  ap- 
prehend the  vagueness  of  their  notions, 
and  their  credulity  about  us,  and  their 
fidgety  curiosity  to  find  something  in 
"  America  and  the  Americans  "  which 
is  new,  peculiar,  and  above  all  unpleas- 
ant. You  are  such  a  lover  of  England 
and  English  folk,  and  you  were  treated 
with  such  kindness  here  by  every  hu- 
man creature  that  you  met,  even  casu- 
ally as  a  stranger,  that  this  assertion  as 
to  their  ignorance  of  our  country  and 
ourselves,  and  as  to  their  feeling  to- 
ward them,  may  be  received  by  you  with 
some  incredulity.1  And  if  you  judge 
them  only  by  certain  narrow  but  prom- 
inent classes,  you  have  some  reason  for 
your  incredulity.  The  superior  part  of 
the  men  in  political  life,  the  publicists, 
the  traveled  and  intelligent  among  the 
mercantile  and  manufacturing  class,  and 
above  all  the  journalists,  have  passed 
out  of  this  dense  stage  of  ignorance  ; 
but  only  to  enter  into  a  confusing  twi- 
light, the  result  of  a  struggle  between 
limited  knowledge  and  unlimited  prej- 
udice. They  see  ;  but  they  are  color- 

l  Not  at  all.  My  good  friend  Humphreys  for- 
gets certain  passages  of  the  book,  in  which  that 
admiration  which  he  and  others  have  found  so 
glowing  is  tempered  by  the  expression  of  opinions 

blind  to  the  few  and  faintly  character- 
istic traits  of  the  men  and  women  who 
are  the  real  products  and  the  real  rep- 
resentatives of  generations  of  American 
training.  They  start  with  the  postulate 
that  what  is  English  cannot  be  Amer- 
ican :  although  why  it  cannot,  none  of 
these  uneasy  mortals  have  yet  been  able 
to  show.  From  their  false  starting- 
point,  they  of  course  proceed  to  false 
conclusions.  No  one  will  dispute  that 
there  are  certain  differences  in  the  gen- 
eral aspect  of  the  two  peoples  (in  so  far 
as  either  of  them  can  be  said  to  have  a 
general  aspect),  in  their  manners,  their 
habits,  and  their  speech ;  but  these  vary- 
ing shades  are  merely  on  the  surface, 
and  are  caused  by  varying  circumstances ; 
most  of  them  transitory  as  well  as  su- 
perficial ;  none  of  them  tending  to  any 
change  of  nature.  What  will  be  the 
result  of  the  great  emigration  from  Ire- 
land and  from  Germany,  which  has 
taken  place  mostly  within  your  and  my 
remembrance,  and  the  settlement  of  the 
Far  West,  also  the  work  of  the  last 
twenty-five  or  thirty  years,  remains  to  be 
seen ;  and  I  leave  it  out  of  the  question, 
as  I  did  in  my  railway  talk  with  Lord 
Toppingham.  But  here  I  am,  lecturing 
you  again,  just  as  I  lectured  him.  I 
doubt  that  you  will  be  half  so  courte- 
ously tolerant  of  me  and  my  fad  as  he 

To  return  to  my  lady  and  her  gentle 
catechising.  I  ^aw  at  once  that  in  apolo- 
gizing for  Mr.  Washington  Adams's  pos- 
sible failures  in  conduct,  I  had  opened 
a  seam  in  my  armor.  She  saw  it,  too, 
and  instantly  took  advantage  of  it.  , 

"  Why,  Mr.  Humphreys,  if  you  never 
saw  Mr.  Adams  in  society,  what  reason 
have  you  for  supposing  that  he  did  n't 
know  how  to  behave  himself  ?  Are  we 
to  assume  that  there  is  danger  of  that 
with  all  Americans,  except,"  with  a 
slight,  gracious  bend  of  her  head,  "  Mr. 
much  like  his  own,  and,  moreover,  by  the  record 
of  evidence  of  just  such  ignorance  as  he  himself 
has  found. 


A  Sequel  to  Mr.  Washington  Adams. 


Mansfield  Humphreys  ?  "  This  without 
even  a  curve  of  her  lip  or  a  twinkle  of 
her  eyelid. 

"  Indeed,  notwithstanding  your  keen- 
edged  compliment,  1  am  willing  to  own 
that  there  are  a  great  many  of  my  coun- 
trymen who  would  be  very  much  out 
of  place  in  the  drawing-room  or  at  the 
dinner -table  of  Toppington  Priory. 
Are  there  not  as  many  of  your  own  fish 
who  would  be  just  as  much  out  of  water 
here  ?  Would  you  like  to  cast  out  a 
drag-net  into  the  streets  of  London,  or 
*the  waste  places  of  England,  and  haul 
into  the  Priory  whatever  you  might 

"  No,  certainly  not ;  but  that 's  quite 
impossible  with  us,  you  know,"  smil- 
ing, but  sitting  a  little  straighten  Then, 
with  a  slight  increase  of  impressiveness 
in  manner,  "  But  you  seem  to  have  a 
strange  mixture  of  knowledge  and  of 
ignorance  about  this  —  this  American 
—  gentleman  whom  you  introduced  to 
Lord  Toppingham.  You  fear,  and  you 
doubt,  and  you  talk  about  drag-nets, 
and  "  — 

"  Pardon  me,  madam,"  I  broke  in  ; 
"but  loosely  as  we  all  use  that  word 
'gentleman,'  nowadays,  I  cannot  but 
protest  when  I  hear  a  gentlewoman 
speak  of  a  creature  like  Mr.  Washing- 
ton Adams  as  an  American  gentleman." 

"  You  admit,  then,  sir,  that  you  intro- 
duced to  Lord  Toppingham  and  to  his 
wife  a  person  who  is  not  a  gentleman, 
even  in  America  !  "  As  my  fair  hostess 
said  this,  she  bent  upon  me  a  look  full  of 
confident  intelligence  and,  as  I  thought, 
of  gentle  triumph ;  but  that  may  have 
been  merely  because  I  felt  that  I  was 
beaten.  I  remember  my  grateful  con- 
sciousness that  there  was  no  severe  dis- 
pleasure in  her  clear  blue  eyes.  But 
my  time  had  come. 

"  Lady  Toppingham,"  I  said,  rising, 
"  I  can  withstand  you  no  longer.  I  am 
here  to  make  a  confession  and  an  apol- 
ogy. Unless  a  bit  of  acting  with  a  bet- 
ter purpose  than  a  mere  joke  degrades 

me  from  the  position  with  which  you 
have  just  honored  me,  I  introduced  to 
your  society  no  one  who  was  unworthy 
of  it.  I  was  Mr.  Washington  Adams." 

My  hostess  rose  quickly,  with  a  flush 
upon  her  face,  saying,  "  And  you  came, 
sir,  a  stranger,  into  this  house  under  a 
feigned  name,  to  hoax  an  English  earl, 
and  —  his  wife,  and  their  guests  !  Look- 
ing at  you  as  you  stand  there,  it  is  hard 
to  believe  it." 

"  Unhappily,  madam,  it  is  true :  un- 
happily, if  it  brings  upon  me  your  dis- 
pleasure. Yet  I  came  not  exactly  as  a 
stranger.  You  probably  know  that  I 
had  had  the  pleasure  of  a  morning's 
talk  with  Lord  Toppingham,  the  agree- 
able result  of  which  to  me  was  the 
honor  of  an  invitation  to  the  Priory  on 
my  own  poor  merits,  and  when  he  did 
not  know  that  I  bore  a  letter  of  intro- 
duction to  him  from  Dr.  Tooptoe.  As 
to  my  little  masquerade,  for  that  I  must 
throw  myself  upon  your  mercy.  I  re- 
garded it  as  hardly  more  than  a  con- 
tinuation, with  a  living  illustration,  of 
our  colloquy  on  the  rails.  I  was  tempt- 
ed to  show  Lord  Toppingham  and  his 
friends  a  specimen  of  the  only  sort  of 
American  which  they,  or  at  least  most  of 
their  countrymen,  recognize  as  genuine  ; 
the  only  one  in  which  they  seem  to  take 
any  real  interest.  If  in  doing  so  I  have 
violated  the  rights  of  hospitality,  or  if  I 
have  offended  Lady  Toppingham,  I  can 
only  bear  the  burden  and  the  blame  of 
my  offense,  ask  pardon,  and  bid  you 

I  bowed,  and  stepped  backward  ;  but 
I  saw  in  her  eye  that  she  did  not  mean 
to  let  me  go.  There  was  awakened  in 
her  woman's  nature  the  hunter's  greed ; 
a  feeling  corresponding  to  that  with 
which  a  man  follows  up  the  wild  beast 
which  he  has  roused,  or  that  with  which 
an  angler  lusts  after  the  trout  that  is 
making  his  reel  sing  and  his  pole  bend 
double.  While  I  was  wondering  what 
would  be  her  next  word,  her  attitude 
towards  me  and  the  expression  of  her 


A  Sequel  to  Mr.  Washington  Adams. 


eye  suddenly  changed,  and  she  broke 
into  a  gentle  but  merry  and  hearty  fit 
of  laughter.  She  fell  into  her  chair 
again,  and  laughed,  still  looking  at  me, 
until,  as  I  stood  before  her,  I  felt  myself 
blushing  to  my  very  forehead. 

After  a  moment  she  said,  "  Pray  be 
seated,  Mr.  Humphreys.  Please  don't 
stand  there  with  that  penitent  air,  or 
I  shall  be  tempted  to  laugh  at  you,  in- 
stead of  laughing  with  you,  as  I  am 
doing  now,  I  assure  you.  It  was  a 
tremendous  farce;  as  good  as  a  play. 
How  you  must  have  enjoyed  the  gen- 
eral mystification  It  was  indeed  rather 
a  bold  thing  to  do,  if  you  '11  permit  me 
to  say  so  ;  but  where  there  is  no  wrong 
and  no  offense,  success  is  an  excuse." 
Then,  as  if  our  interview  had  thus 
far  been  of  the  most  ordinary  nature, 
"  Would  you  mind  touching  the  bell  for 
me  ?  " 

I  did  so,  and  a  man-servant  quickly 
entered.  "  Tell  Jackson  to  bring  Lady 
Charlotte  here  ;  "  and  going  to  a  vase 
of  flowers  she  busied  herself  with  them 
a  moment,  till  a  nursery-maid  appeared 
with  a  little  girl,  about  a  year  and  a  half 
older  than  the  boy  whom  I  had  found 
with  her  on  my  entrance.  She  took  the 
child  upon  her  lap,  and  the  maid  retired 
to  a  window  on  the  other  side  of  the1 
room.  I  wonder  if  there  is  an  instincft 
in  a  young  mother  that  teaches  her  tha't 
the  presence  of  her  child  in  her  arms 
not  only  enhances  all  her  womanly  At- 
tractions, but  adds  to  her  dignity,  ai«d 
makes  every  true  man  her  humble  ser- 

The  child  looked  at  me  with  infantiW 
approval,  and  the  mother  said,  "  This  has 
been  rather  a  strange  interview  for  a 
first  morning  call ;  but,"  smiling,  "  I  for- 
get, —  it  is  a  second.  I  must  tell  y<pu, 
then,  that  we  do  not  feel  toward  you 
quite  as  if  you  were  a  stranger  ;  for 
not  only  did  dear  old  Dr.  Tooptoe  write 
most  kindly  of  you  in  a  private  letter 
to  my  lord,  but  your  friend,  whom  ^ve 
saw  a  good  deal  of  before  he  left  oiir 

country,  spoke  of  you  so  often  and  in 
such  a  way  that  we  felt  as  if  we  knew 
you,  and  looked  for  your  coming  with 

"  Did  he  hint "  — 

"  Not  a  word." 

"  Did  Lord  Toppingham  suspect  ?  " 

"No;  I  'm  inclined  to  think  not.  lie 
was  mystified,  of  course,  and  suspected 
something ;  but  not,  I  believe,  that  you 
were  Mr.  Washington  Adams.  You  may 
think  it  odd,  but  I  did  not  tell  him  what 
I  myself  suspected  in  a  vague  sort  of 
way  ;  for  you  '11  remember,  I  had  never 
seen  you.  I  rather  enjoyed  Lord  Top- 
pingham's  bewilderment ;  and  I  felt  sure 
that  you  would  be  here  soon,  and  that 
it  would  all  be  settled,  one  way  or  an- 
other. But  indeed,  Mr.  Humphreys,  you 
tried  me  rather  sorely  that  morning  ; 
did-'you  not  ?  Are  you  in  the  habit  of 
such  performances,  —  a  professed  prac- 
tical joker  ?  " 

"  Never  before,  I  assure  you,  did  I  do 
such  a  thing.  That  was  my  first  ap- 
pearance in  such  a  character ;  and  it 
shall  be  my  last.  I  feel  like  saying,  with 
the  school-boy  brought  up  for  discipline, 
'  I  did  n't  do  it ;  and  I  '11  never  do  it 
again.'  " 

"  But  how  came  you  to  present  us,  as 
an  American,  such  a  monstrous  creature, 
such  a  libel,  I  am  sure,  upon  your  coun- 
trymen ?  " 

"  A  little  too  sure,  perhaps ;  for  Mr. 
Washington  Adams  was  no  monster,  no 
libel,  but,  as  you  saw  him,  a  portrait, 
a  real  man  ;  a  little  highly  charged,  to 
be  sure,  but  no  more  so  than  Mr.  Du 
Maurier's  figures  in  his  social  sketches." 

"  And  the  Americans  are  like  Mr. 
Washington  Adams  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  say  so.  Your  phrase  is 
general,  universal.  Some  are." 

"  Men  who  go  about  whittling  ?  " 

"  Verily,  my  lady,  there  be  Ameri- 
cans that  whittle." 

"  And  carry  bowie-knives  and  pistols 
in  that  dreadful  way  ?  " 

"  There  are  many  men  in  America 


A  Sequel  to  Mr.  Washington  Adams. 


who  carry  bowie-knives  and  pistols,  and 
handle  them  as  freely  as  others,  both 
here  and  there,  handle  canes  and  riding- 
whips.  But  if  you  went  to  America  you 
would  have  to  look  far  to  find  them.  In 
all  my  life  I  have  never  seen  one." 

"  And  who,"  drawing  down  the  cor- 
ners of  her  mouth,  "  spit  tobacco  as 
you  "  — 

"  Pardon  me,  madam,  I  did  no  such 
thing,  as  you  might  have  known  before 
if  you  had  asked  your  servants." 

"  Well,  then,  as  you  pretended  to." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  be  obliged  to  confess 
that  my  portrait  would  have  been  very 
imperfect  if  that  feature  of  it  had  been 
omitted.  You  would  find  that,  much 
more  easily  than  the  whittling  and  the 
pistol-carrying,  although  not  in  any  pri- 
vate house  where  you  would  be  likely 
to  be  a  visitor.  But  in  railway  cars,  and 
in  hotels,  except  in  your  own  rooms  and 
those  of  your  friends,  you  would  have 
difficulty  in  escaping  it.  Indeed,  one 
of  the  peculiarities  of  American  public 
atmosphere  in  winter  is  a  singular  and 
unmistakable  odor,  produced  by  such 
narcotic  expectorations  upon  the  heated 
surface  of  a  stove.  Pray,  excuse  me ; 
although  I  can  hardly  forgive  myself  for 
speaking  so  plainly  of  something  the 
very  memory  of  which  is  nauseous." 

"  And  then  Mr.  Washington  Adams 
was,  or  represented,  a  real  man,  —  a 
real  American,  after  all ;  and  we  are 
not  so  much  out  of  the  way  as  you  would 
have  us  believe." 

"  Let  me  explain.  I  was  tempted 
into  the  escapade  which  you  have  so 
kindly  passed  over  by  the  frequent,  the 
almost  incessant,  presentation  by  British 
writers  of  all  sorts  —  dramatists,  novel- 
ists, journalists,  travelers —  of  a  creature 
whom  they  offer  to  you,  and  generally 
in  so  many  words,  as  the  American  ;  and 
who  is  accepted  by  you  —  most  of  you  — 
as  '  the  American.'  A  man  who  behaves 
himself  decently,  and  who  is  a  fair  rep- 
resentative of  the  well  bred  and  well  ed- 
ucated —  I  will  not  say  the  cultivated  — 

VOL.  LIII.  —  NO.  315.  8 

American,  you  pass  by  without  remark  ; 
and  if  you  wish  to  characterize  Amer- 
ican society,  you  choose  for  the  purpose 
a  man  who  speaks  and  acts  like  Mr. 
Washington  Adams.  You  look  upon  us, 
in  the  first  place,  as  one  homogeneous 
lot  or  lump  of  nondescript  human  crea- 
tures ;  and  of  that  congregation  you 
make  Mr.  Washington  Adams  the  rep- 
resentative. I  'm  not  speaking  now  of 
the  few  better  informed  and  more  kind- 
ly intentioned  among  you,  but  of  the 
majority  who  are  full  of  ignorance  and 
of  prejudice,  and  of  those  who  serve 
their  interest  and  gratify  their  feelings 
by  pandering  to  the  combined  ignorance 
and  prejudice  of  others.  Your  whole  cur- 
rent literature,  particularly  your  news- 
papers, to  this  very  day  are  full  of 
such  perversion  and  misrepresentation. 
Any  queer,  coarse,  grotesque  slang, 
which  may  have  been  heard  in  some 
part  of  America,  or  picked  out  of  some 
American  newspaper,  and  which  is  nev- 
er used  by  decent,  educated  men,  is  re- 
peated, with  the  remark  '  as  the  Amer- 
icans say.'  All  this,  and  the  uneasy 
desire,  so  commonly  manifested  by  your 
travelers  and  by  your  writers  on  social 
subjects,  not  to  see  things  simply  as  they 
are  in  America,  but  to  find  something 
new  and  strange,  if  not  ridiculous,  in 
speech  or  habits  of  life,  provoked  me, 
after  my  talk  with  Lord  Toppingham,  to 
play  my  prank,  and  make  a  little  fun 
of  you  before  your  own  eyes.  In  play- 
ing it,  I  presented,  of  course,  a  highly 
charged  portrait,  not  of  any  American 
that  you  would  be  likely  to  meet,  but 
of  such  a  one  as  most  of  your  country- 
men seem  to  be  desirous  of  meeting ; 
although,  as  my  good  friend  Captain 
Surcingle  said  to  me,  not  '  as  a  wegla 
thing.'  " 

"Poor,  dear  old  Jack,"  said  Lady 
Toppingham :  "  he  can  be  an  awful 
goose  ;  but  there  is  something  in  him, 
after  all.  No  man  could  ride  to  hounds 
as  he  does,  and  not  be  a  good  fellow." 

"  Indeed,  I  'm  sure  you  're  right  as 


A  Sequel  to  Mr.  Washington  Adams. 


well  as  kind  about  the  captain, — al- 
though I  'm  not  enough  of  a  Nimrod  to 
see  the  connection  between  goodness 
and  riding  to  hounds.  But  as  to  my 
Washington  Adams,  again  ;  my  sword, 
as  I  have  already  confessed  to  you,  was 
double  edged,  and  cut  both  ways.  There 
was  not  a  trait  of  manners  or  of  speech 
in  my  figure,  I  am  sure,  which  was  not 
a  truthful  representation,  slightly  high- 
lighted and  dark  -  shadowed,  of  what 
might  be  seen  and  heard  in  some  part 
of  America,  among  certain  people.  The 
sense  of  monstrosity  which  you  had 
was  due  less  to  any  exaggeration  than 
to  the  presentation  of  all  these  traits  in 
one  man  and  in  the  course  of  an  hour 
or  so  ;  as  a  dramatist  will  crowd  the  im- 
portant events  of  years  or  of  a  life  into 
five  acts,  which  can  be  presented  in  one 
evening.  You  had  your  not  uncommon 
British  notion  of  '  the  Americans '  con- 
centrated into  human  pemmican.  No 
wonder  that  you  found  it  rather  highly 
seasoned.  And  let  me  ask  you,  If  I 
were  to  offer  to  the  world  as  a  repre- 
sentation of  the  manners  and  customs 
of  the  English,  what  I  might  see  at  the 
Toppingham  Arms  in  the  village  on 
Saturday  night,  would  not  Lord  Top- 
pingham, and  Sir  Charles  Boreham,  and 
Dr.  Tooptoe,  and  Mr.  Grimstone,  be 
likely  to  scout  it,  and  perhaps  even  to 
resent  it  a  little  ?  " 

"  That  would  be  absurd.  I  'm  sure 
you  would  n't  do  that.  It  would  n't  be 
at  all  fair." 

While  this  talk  was  going  on,  the  lit- 
tle Lady  Charlotte  had  slid  down  from 
her  mother's  lap,  and  had  toddled  over 
to  me  and  begun  to  play  with  the  seal 
and  key  upon  my  watch-ribbon.  Soon 
I  took  her,  too,  upon  my  knee,  to  her 
apparent  satisfaction,  and  with  the  evi- 
dent approbation  of  the  mother.  As 
she  sat  there,  a  voice  was  heard,  which 
even  I  recognized,  and  my  hostess  said, 
"  There  's  Lord  Toppingham  ; "  and,  af- 
ter a  moment's  hesitation,  "  Shall  I  tell 
him  ?  " 

"  No,  please  don't.  Let  me  do  that 

"  As  you  wish,  of  course ;  but  why  ?'* 

"  My  offense,  if  it  were  one,  was  per- 
sonal to  Lord  Toppingham  ;  and  with  all 
thanks  to  you,  madam,  and  feeling  fully 
what  must  be  the  strength  of  your  ad- 
vocacy, I  don't  quite  like  to  seek  shel- 
ter behind  a  woman's  —  fan."  I  had 
almost  used  another  word,  although  I 
had  not  begun  it,  and  a  little  blush  and 
a  sparkle  of  the  eye  showed  me  that  the 
lady  had  read  my  thought. 

A  few  moments  passed  :  then  enter 
Lord  Toppingham  in  his  shooting  gear. 
As  he  opened  the  door  he  saw  the  pret- 
ty burden  of  my  knee,  and  exclaimed, 
"  Why,  Chartie,  darling,  where  have  you 
got  ?  "  before  he  was  well  in  the  room. 
He  came  quickly  to  me,  and  giving  me 
a  cordial  grasp  of  the  hand  said,  "  I  'm 
sure  we're  glad  to  see  you,  at  last. 
Heard  you  were  here,  and  only  stopped 
to  wash  the  powder  off  my  hands.  You 
've  got  on  famously,  I  see,  with  one 
very  important  member  of  this  house- 
hold," glancing  at  his  little  daughter, 
who  was  now  with  her  mother ;  "  and 
that,  I  see,"  looking  into  his  wife's 
bright,  sweet  face,  "  has  done  you  no 
harm  in  another  quarter."  And  then 
he,  too,  gave  me  to  understand  how  you 
had  prepared  for  me  such  a  frank  and 
warm  reception. 

We  passed  pleasantly  enough  through 
the  unavoidable  few  minutes  of  com- 
monplace talk  which  open  a  first  inter- 
view, during  which  he  mentioned  that 
his  companion  had  gone  home  with  a 
bit  of  percussion  cap  in  his  cheek. 
"  His  first  wound,"  he  added  ;  "  his  bap- 
tism of  fire,  as  that  sham  Louis  Napo- 
leon said  about  his  poor  little  Prince 

"  For  shame,  Toppingham  !  Is  poor 
Jack  hurt  ?  " 

"  Not  half  so  much  as  he  might  be 
by  his  own  razor,  or  a  woman's  hair-pin. 
It'll  just  give  him  an  opportunity  for  a 
becomiu'  mouche."  Then  to  me,  "  He 


A  Sequel  to'  Mr.  Washington  Adams. 


was  very  much  taken  by  your  friend, 
Mr.  Washington  Adams,  —  was  n't  he 
Kate  ?  You  must  have  observed  it. 
Most  extraord'nary  person,  that !  Do 
tell  us  somethin'  about  him.  Never  saw 
such  a  queer-actin'  person  in  my  life  !  " 

"  Come,  come,"  said  Lady  Topping- 
ham,  "don't  trouble  Mr.  Humphreys 
about  that  now.  He  has  explained  and 
apologized  for  all  Mr.  Adams's  pecu- 
liarities ;  and  we  've  had  quite  enough 
of  that  sort  of  American,"  with  an  em- 
phasis and  a  glance  that  gave  me  a  little 

"  You  '11  stop  to  dinner  with  us,  of 
course :  pray  do ;  "  and  my  hostess  heart- 
ily confirmed  the  invitation. 

1  excused  myself ;  said  that  I  had 
brought  a  horse  with  me,  and  glanced 
at  my  costume. 

"  Never  mind  that.  Your  horse  will 
stop,  too  ;  he  '11  be  well  looked  after  in 
the  stables.  And  as  to  your  morning 
coat,  never  mind  that,  either.  I  can 
send  you  everything  else  that  you  '11  re- 
quire. Do  stop.  We  're  quite  alone  for 
a  day  or  two  ;  somethin'  not  very  com- 
mon at  this  season  of  the  year.  You  '11 
save  Lady  Toppin'ham  and  me  from 
playin'  Darby  and  Joan." 

Just  then  a  servant  entered,  and  said, 
"  Miss  Duffield  is  here,  my  lady.  She  's 
stopping  a  moment  to  talk  with  Mrs. 
Timmins,"  who,  I  discovered,  was  the 

"  Oh,  I  'm  glad  she  's  come,"  said 
Lady  Toppingham.  "  Now  I  'm  sure 
you  '11  stay,"  with  the  slightest  possible 
side  turn  of  the  head.  "  Gentlemen  al- 
ways do  stay  where  Margaret  Duffield 
is.  Although  I  don't  know  but  you  're 
so  spoiled  with  your  wonderful  Ameri- 
can beauties,  we  hear  so  much  about, 
that  you  may  prove  unimpressible.  Lord 
Toppingham  's  her  guardian.  She  's 
quite  at  home  here,  —  comes  and  goes 
just  as  she  pleases  ;  may  not  show  her- 
self for  a  while  yet." 

She  did,  however,  show  herself  at  that 
moment,  entering  with  a  charming  union 

of  modesty  and  self-possession  ;  and  af- 
ter greeting  and  kissing  Lady  Topping- 
ham,  she  gave  her  hand  and  offered  her 
cheek  to  her  guardian.  As  there  were 
only  four  of  us,  I  was  introduced  by  the 
mere  mention  of  my  name.  This  and 
her  greetings  brought  light  to  her  eyes 
and  an  enchanting  accession  of  color 
to  her  cheek.  She  fully  justified  Lady 
Toppingham.  I  have  rarely  seen  so 
beautiful  a  girl ;  never,  one  so  lovely. 
You  will  imagine  a  fair,  rosy,  blue-eyed, 
golden-haired  young  woman,  round  and 
radiant,  with  all  the  soft  white  splendor 
of  what  is  called  Anglo-Saxon  beauty. 
But  you  will  be  wrong.  That  beauty  is 
found  in  England,  but  it  is  far  from  be- 
ing so  common  as  is  generally  supposed  ; 
not  so  common  as  in  New  England,  I 
have  sometimes  thought.  Not  notice- 
ably tall,  Miss  Duffield  was  yet  a  little 
above  the  average  height  of  women,  and 
the  eye-alluring  charms  of  her  perfect 
figure  were  enhanced  by  what  I  saw  at 
a  second  glance  was  a  gown  a  little 
shorter- waisted  than  the  fashion.  That 
sharp,  hard  line,  which  seems  to  be  de- 
fined by  some  mechanical  force,  and  to 
divide  harshly  the  upper  from  the  lower 
half  of  the  figure,  was  absent ;  and  this 
added  not  a  little  both  to  the  dignity  and 
the  grace  of  her  bearing.  Her  broad, 
low  brow  was  as  white  as  marble,  and 
so  was  her  neck.  Her  eyes  would  have 
been  black  but  for  a  slight  olive  tint 
that  enriched  and  softened  them  ;  and 
her  hair,  which  was  not  banged  or  bru- 
tified  in  any  way,  but  parted  and  drawn 
gently  above  her  pink-tipped  ears  to  a 
knot,  seemed  black  upon  her  full  white 
temples,  but  where  the  light  shone  on  it 
of  a  warmer  hue.  Her  nose  was  saved 
from  being  perfect  Grecian  by  a  slight 
upward  curve  from  the  thin  nostril, 
a  type  of  that  feature  somewhat  more 
common  here  than  it  is  with  us,  al- 
though, generally  speaking,  England  is 
not  distinguished  as  a  country  of  fine 
noses.  Of  the  winning  beauty  of  her 
mouth  I  shall  not  venture  to  attempt  to 


A  Sequel  to  Mr.  Washington  Adams. 


give  you  an  idea.  It  was  no  little  rose- 
bud, but  nobly  lined,  and  full  and  rich 
with  promise  ;  the  teeth  and  their  set- 
ting seeming  to  have  been  furnished  by 
Hygeia.  Briefly,  imagine  a  dark-eyed, 
dark-haired  Hebe,  with  an  expression 
of  intelligence  and  character  which  are 
not  Hebe's  peculiar  attributes,  and  you 
will  have  an  approximate  idea  of  Miss 
Duffield.  Her  dress  was  perfect :  dark 
olive-green  from  throat  to  ankles,  includ- 
ing her  very  gloves,  with  a  light  gray 
broad-leafed  hat  and  feather.  Some 
Englishwomen  dress  so  admirably  that 
it  is  all  the  more  unaccountable  that  so 
many  of  them  dress  ill. 

My  little  friend  Chartie  made  for  the 
new-comer  as  soon  as  she  entered  the 
room,  calling  her  Aunt  Peggy,  climbing 
into  her  willing  lap,  and  lavishing  upon 
her  the  somewhat  oppressive  although 
gentle  caresses  of  a  petted,  loving  child, 
and  managing,  during  a  few  moments 
which  were  occupied  with  desultory 
talk,  to  push  back  her  hat,  and  so  to 
disarrange  her  hair  that,  although  the 
general  result  seemed  to  me  more  ad- 
mirable than  the  most  elaborate  hair- 
dressing  I  had  ever  observed,  the  young 
lady  withdrew,  accompanied  by  my  host- 
ess, to  repair  damages. 

"  Lady  Toppingham  told  me  that  Miss 
Duffield  is  your  ward." 

"  Yes  ;  she  is  my  wife's  cousin,  the 
orphan  daughter  of  her  mother's  young- 
er sister,  who  was  married  to  a  gentle- 
man of  moderate  estate,  which,  on  his 
early  death  without  a  male  heir,  went  to 
a  distant  relative.  She  is  a  dear,  good 
girl,  although  somewhat  wayward ;  as 
lovable  as  she  is  beautiful.  I  could  not 
love  her  more  if  she  were  my  younger 
sister  or  my  daughter." 

"  I  cannot  doubt  it." 

"  When  I  say  wayward,  I  don't  mean 
that  she  's  inclined  to  be  fast  and  slang- 
ish,  like  so  many  of  our  girls,  although 
she  doesn't  lack  spirit.  Far  from  it.  But 
she 's  quietly  set  in  her  own  ways :  not 
very  foud  of  gayety,  although  she  can 

be  the  merriest  and  most  companionable 
creature  in  the  world  ;  likes  to  be  a  good 
deal  by  herself,  with  her  music  and  her 
books,  and  to  take  long  walks  ;  knows 
all  the  old  women  and  the  young  moth- 
ers in  the  cottages  about  here,  and  they 
all  worship  her." 

"  Strange  that  such  a  girl  as  she  is 
has  not  been  married  ere  this." 

"  Yes,  indeed  ;  but  she  does  n't  ap- 
pear at  all  inclined  to  marriage.  Poor 
Madge  !  she  has  only  one  hundred  and 
fifty  pounds  a  year  ;  but  she  seems  per- 
fectly content.  She  might  have  been 
Marchioness  of  Tipton,  and  outranked 
her  cousin.  She  might  have  had  Sir 
John  Acrelipp,  who  has  thirty  thousand 
a  year,  if  she  had  only  held  up  her  fin- 
ger ;  but  she  would  n't.  Jack  Surcingle 
is  awfully  cut  up  about  her,  and  al- 
though he  is  only  a  second  son  he  has 
a  thousand  a  year  from  his  mother  and 
his  uncle,  besides  his  allowance  and 
his  pay  ;  but  she  laughs  and  talks  with 
Jack,  and  is  as  kind  as  kind  can  be ; 
and  yet  I  can  see  that  on  this  subject 
she  keeps  him  at  arm's-length." 

"  A  musician,  you  say  ?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed  ;  which  I  'm  not,  I  'm 
glad  to  own.  Can't  see  the  use  of  it. 
She  does  n't  sing  much,  only  a  few  lit- 
tle airs  and  ballads  for  me  and  the  chil- 
dren ;  but  she 's  what  Hans  Breitmann 
would  call  a  biano-blayer,  and  quite 
awful  in  the  way  of  Bach  and  Beetho- 
ven, and  opuses  and  things." 

"  Rather  a  remarkable  girl,  it  seems 
to  me." 

"  Well  you  may  say  so ;  but,  with  all 
her  sweetness,  somewhat  troublesome  to 
a  guardian.  I  don't  know  what  we  shall 
do  with  her ;  such  a  mixture  of  attrac- 
tiveness and  reserve,  of  poverty  and  con- 
tent. She  makes  us  anxious,  sometimes, 
for  her  future." 

"  Lord  Toppingham,"  I  said  here,  ris- 
ing suddenly, "  I  've  a  confession  to  make 
to  you,  and  an  apology." 

He  rose  also,  and  looked  inquiringly 
into  my  face.  Then  I  repeated  to  him 


A  Sequel  to  Mr.   Washington  Adams. 


what  I  had  said  to  Lady  Toppiiigham  ; 
telling  him  how  I  had  been  tempted  to 
it  by  our  long  colloquy  in  the  railway 
carriage,  and  adding  that  1  could  not 
remain  under  his  roof  and  leave  him 
ignorant  of  what  1  had  done,  nor  if  he 
felt  that  I  had  given  him  just  cause  of 

He  took  a  turn  up  and  down  the 
room,  and  then  stopping  before  me  said, 
"  Frankly,  it  was  carrying  a  practical 
joke  rather  far,  upon  a  first  acquaint- 
ance, as  I  'm  glad  to  see  that  you  feel 
yourself ;  and  if  I  had  discovered  it 
without  your  confession,  I  own  that  I 
might  have  been  offended.  But  I  see 
just  how  it  was  :  I  think  I  can  under- 
stand your  motive,  and  I  certainly  honor 
your  candor.  And  —  well,  let  us  forget 
everything  but  the  fun  of  it,"  and  with 
a  pleasant  smile  he  held  out  his  hand. 

In  a  moment  or  two  Lady  Topping- 
ham  returned,  saying,  as  she  entered, 
"  Will  Mr.  Humphreys  stay  to  dinner  ?  " 

"  Thanks  ;  since  you  're  so  kind  as  to 
ask  me,  and  you  seem  quite  ready  to 
excuse  my  morning  rig,  and  to  take  me 
as  I  am,  I  will." 

"  We  shall  be  most  happy.  I  thought 
you  'd  stop.  You  're  very  good,"  with 
the  least  perceptible  spark  of  merriment 
in  her  eye,  and  something  in  her  man- 
ner that  gave  me  the  notion  that  she 
would  have  been  glad  to  drop  me  a  lit- 
tle mock  curtsey  ;  but  she  did  n't. 

Now  came  five  o'clock  tea,  and  with 
it  Miss  Duffield.  Needless  to  tell  you 
how  we  chatted  through  this  delightful 
gouter :  delightful,  thus  taken  with  two 
or  three,  or  half  a  dozen,  pleasant  com- 
panions in  the  lady's  parlor  or  the  "  liv- 
ing "  drawing-room  of  a  country  house  ; 
but  a  bore, — I  confess  it,  an  unmitigat- 
ed bore,  — when  it  is  made  the  occasion 
of  a  small  and  early  entertainment  in 
the  city,  where  thirty  or  forty  people, 
or  more,  come  and  go  in  costly  morning 
dresses,  the  women  with  their  bonnets 
on,  tinkle  teacups  and  spoons,  and  gab- 
ble the  commonplaces  of  society. 

Our  talk  gradually  subsided  into  a 
silence,  which  we  were  not  ready  to 
break,  while  the  rays  of  the  sun  slanted 
through  a  pretty  oriel  window,  as  the 
great  light-giver  sank  behind  a  heavy 
mass  of  clouds.  In  the  course  of  our 
conversation  I  had  spoken  about  music 
to  the  ladies  in  a  way  that  revealed,  as 
I  intended  it  should,  my  love  for  the 
mysterious  art,  half  sensuous,  half  emo- 
tional, which,  as  you  know,  is  one  of  the 
chief  pleasures  of  my  life.  "  Come, 
Margaret,"  said  Lady  Toppingham,  sud- 
denly breaking  the  silence,  "  go  to  the 
piano,  and  give  Mr.  Humphreys  some 

She  rose  immediately,  and  saying 
only,  "  With  pleasure,"  went  to  the  in- 
strument. Lord  Toppingham  rose  and 
left  the  room,  and  looking  in  again  in 
a  moment  said  to  the  countess,  "  Kate, 
Mr.  Humphreys  will  excuse  you  for  a 
little  while  ;  I  want  to  say  a  word  to 

Miss  Duffield  sat  down  before  the 
piano,  which  I  opened  for  her,  and  the 
deft  fingers  of  her  right  hand,  not  small, 
but  lithe,  well  rounded,  white,  and  rosy- 
tipped,  ran  lightly  up  little  chromatic 
scales  here  and  there  upon  the  key- 
board. Invariable  this,  with  all  musi- 
cians :  they  feel  and  coax  their  instru- 
ments, whether  piano-fortes,  or  violins, 
or  what  not,  before  they  set  earnestly  to 
work.  As  she  did  this  little  preliminary 
trick,  her  left  hand  lying  in  her  lap, 
she  turned  to  me  and  asked,  "  Are  you 
of  the  Humphreys  of  Dorset  ?  " 

"  No  ;  my  people  came  from  this  coun- 
ty. But  that  was  a  long  while  ago. 
Don't  you  know  that  I  'm  an  American, 
from  Massachusetts,  —  what  you,  and 
we  too,  call  a  Yankee  ?  I  've  some 
cousins  at  home  named  Duffield." 

Her  hand  fell  lightly  down  beside  its 
fellow,  and  for  one  precious  apprecia- 
ble instant  she  bent  upon  my  eyes  a 
look  which  I  had  seen  in  others  of  her 
countrywomen,  when  I  told  the  same 
to  them ;  only  it  was  softer,  less  like  a 


A  Sequel  to  Mr.  Washington  Adams. 


stare ;  there  was  a  mingling  of  sorrow, 
almost  of  pleading,  with  its  gentle  won- 

Did  you  ever  ask  yourself  if  such 
women  truly  feel,  really  are,  what  they 
undesigningly  express ;  whether  there  is 
in  fact  any  necessary  connection  between 
their  outer  and  their  inner  selves?  I 
have  sometimes  doubted  it.  And  if  there 
is  such  a  relation  between  soul  and  body 
in  them,  what  becomes  of  the  poor 
women  who  have  not  eyes  and  lips  like 
Miss  Duffield's  ?  I  remember  coming 
suddenly  upon  a  good  homely  girl  who 
I  thought  was  in  distress,  and  about  to 
weep.  Alas,  poor  young  woman  !  if  I 
had  entered  only  a  few  minutes  before, 
I  should  have  known  that  she  was  more 
than  usually  happy,  and  that  that  dis- 
tortion of  her  face  was  her  way  of  smil- 
ing. As  the  thought  that  suggests  this 
flashed  across  my  mind,  Miss  Duffield 
sat  quickly  up,  and  took  half  a  dozen 
double  handfuls  of  roaring  chords  out  of 
the  instrument,  which  trembled  under 
her  aggressive  touch.  After  a  moment's 
silence  she  played  one  of  Schubert's 
airs ;  and  Schubert  himself  would  have 
thanked  her  as  heartily  as  I  did.  I  asked 
for  more  ;  and  without  a  word  she  played 
reminiscences,  of  her  own  arranging,  I 
suspect,  of  the  garden  music  in  Gounod's 
Faust.  The  happy  wires  sang  love  un- 
der her  persuasive  fingers.  For  this  I 
did  not  thank  her,  and  we  sat  a  few  mo- 
ments without  speaking.  Then  reach- 
ing from  the  music-rack  a  book  which 
had  caught  my  eye,  I  opened  it,  and  put 
it  before  her,  saying,  "  What  you  have 
done  is  charming,  indeed ;  but  I  know 
that  you  must  like  something  better. 
Please,  will  you  not  play  me  one  of 
these  ?  " 

"  That !  That's  Bach,"  she  said,  with 
surprise  in  her  face.  "  Do  you  like 
Bach  ?  " 

"Why  not?" 

"  Why,  you  're  an  American,  you  say, 
and  I  should  n't  think  of  playing  Bach 
to  an  American.  I  know  you  have 

Italian  opera  over  there,  with  Patti  and 
Nilsson  and  all  the  rest.  But  Bach ! 
It 's  only  of  late  years  even  here  that 
people  generally  begun  to  like  Bach  ; 
except  the  real  musicians,  you  know." 

"  But  I  learned  to  like  Bach  in  Amer- 
ica when  I  was  a  little  boy,  before  Pat- 
ti and  Nilsson  were  heard  of.  Just  as 
few  people  in  America  as  in  England 
really  like  and  understand  Bach ;  but 
in  my  boyhood  I  was  one  of  a  sort  of 
club  that  met  every  week  to  enjoy  Bach 
and  Beethoven,  and  there  are  many 
other  such  in  America.  I  know  of  one 
which  began  in  the  last  generation, 
and  has  met  weekly  for  thirty -five 

She  said  no  more,  but  played  one  of 
those  sonatas  in  which  the  great  master 
of  the  antique  school  makes  a  fugue  sing 
the  passion  of  a  broken  heart  amid  all 
the  intricacies  of  counterpoint.  And 
then  she  played  another,  and  yet  an- 
other, and  another,  until  the  twilight  be- 
gan to  fall  upon  us  ;  and  rising  hastily, 
she  said,  "  Excuse  me  ;  I  must  dress  for 
dinner,"  and  left  me  in  the  darkling 

As  this  parlor  was  not  used  at  night, 
it  was  not  lighted,  and  I  sat  undisturbed, 
musing  happily  under  the  influence  of 
the  music,  for  nearly  half  an  hour,  be- 
fore a  servant  entered  with  a  candle,  and 
a  message:  "My  lady  sent  me  to  show 
you  your  room,  sir,  if  you  'd  like  to  go  to 
it  now."  But  going  out  I  met  Lord  Top- 
pingham  himself,  who  said,  "  I  've  been 
lookin'  for  you  in  the  drawin'-room. 
What  made  you  sit  here  in  the  dark  ?  " 
Then  he  kindly  accompanied  me  to  my 
room,  with  an  air  of  welcome,  and  hop- 
ing that  I  would  ask  for  anything  I 
wanted  (but  all  was  amply  provided)  he 
left  me  to  the  valeting  of  my  solicitous 
attendant,  and  I  soon  went  down  to  him 
and  the  ladies. 

Of  course,  in  such  a  little  party  of 
four,  I  took  my  hostess  in  to  dinner, 
which  she  had  wisely  ordered  to  be  served 
at  a  round  table  standing  at  the  edge  of 


A  Sequel  to  Mr.  Washington  Adams. 


a  huge  bay-window  of  the  dining-room. 
Our  dinner  was  chatty  and  pleasant ; 
but  although  Miss  Duffield  was  directly 
opposite  to  me,  she  said  hardly  a  word 
to  me  during  dinner,  directing  most  of 
her  conversation  to  her  guardian.  Be- 
fore we  returned  to  the  drawing-room 
the  afternoon  clouds  had  gathered  over- 
head, and  were  pouring  rain.  "  Of  course 
you  '11  not  go  wandering  off  about  the 
country  in  such  a  night  as  this,"  my 
hostess  said.  "  You  '11  stop  till  to-mor- 
row. What  a  blessing  that  some  one  was 
sent  to  keep  us  from  boring  each  other 
to  death !  Really,  Mr.  Humphreys,  you 
're  quite  a  merciful  dispensation." 

I  stayed  over  till  next  morning  at  the 
Priory,  and  far  into  the  next  day,  and 
departed  only  from  necessity,  and  with 
a  hearty  and  accepted  invitation  to  re- 
turn directly  for  a  visit  of  some  days, 
on  which  I  was  promised  a  meeting  with 
some  pleasant  people.  There  were 
some  eight  or  a  dozen  guests  all  the 
time,  who  shot  and  dined,  and  dined  and 
shot ;  and  they  were  pleasant  enough ; 
but  what  they  were  is  not  to  my  pres- 
ent purpose.  I  enjoyed  it  all,  but  most 
the  society  of  my  hostess  and  her  cousin. 
They  charmed  me  more  than  any  other 
women  I  had  ever  met.  Well-bred, 
simple,  unaffected,  sensible,  well  -  edu- 
cated women  I  had  seen  before ;  but 
never  women  who  to  all  these  qualities 
added  a  sweet  feminine  meekness  of 
manner,  combined  with  a  capacity  to 
show  spirit,  and  even  to  be  bold,  upon 
occasion.  This  muliebrity  seems  to  me 
the  crowuing  charm  of  the  sex  in  Eng- 
land. With  it  these  ladies,  into  whose 
close  companionship  I  was  gradually 
drawn,  fed  fat  the  hunger  of  my  soul. 
Our  common  love  for  music,  and  the 
likeness  of  our  love,  brought  me  very 
near  to  Miss  Duffield  ;  this  nearness  be- 
ing much  favored  by  her  evident  lack 
of  sympathy  witli  most  of  the  men 
around  her,  and  by  her  independence. 
We  were  thus  often  alone,  and  never 
more  alone  than  at  times  when  there 

were  others  near  us.  You  know  my 
love  for  walking  in  the  country,  which 
at  home  I  have  generally  to  enjoy  in 
solitude.  She  rivaled  me,  and  allowed 
me  to  accompany  her  on  some  of  her 
strolls,  and  even  on  some  of  her  chari- 
table missions.  On  one  of  these  I  dis- 
covered the  reason  of  the  reserve  that 
awakened  her  guardian's  anxiety.  Our 
talk  had  gradually  led  up  to  it,  and  she 
exclaimed,  — 

"  Oh,  I  'm  weary  of  seeing  men 
around  me  doing  nothing,  thinking 
nothing,  and  leading  such  petty,  selfish 
lives  !  Of  course  I  know  there  are  able 
men  enough  and  busy  men  enough  in 
England ;  but  I  've  been  to  London 
only  once  since  I  was  a  child,  and  I  see 
nothing  of  that  sort  of  man,  but  men 
that  shoot,  and  hunt,  and  play  billiards, 
and  gamble,  or  vanish  away  to  the  Con- 
tinent on  some  shameful  business,  like 

those ;  "  and  she  mentioned  two 

or  three  noble  families,  whose  names 
were  well  known  in  the  divorce  court. 
"  Either  these,  or  else  a  dull  squire.  My 
dear  guardian  is  worth  a  regiment  of 
such  men.  There  's  Surcingle :  he  does 
n't  gamble,  and  he  's  good.  But  what 
do  you  think  he  said,"  she  added,  laugh- 
ing, "  one  day  when  I  told  him  he  did 
nothing  but  play  billiards  ?  That  he 
did  :  that  he  hunted,  and  shot,  and  ate, 
and  smoked,  and  played  cricket,  and 
made  —  talked  to  me  ;  and  although 
he  is  n't  the  wisest,  he  's  about  the  best 
of  them.  And  yet  I  detest  prigs  and 
pedants.  I  know  I  'm  only  a  woman, 
but  I  can't  help  thinking ;  and  it  seems 
to  me  that  the  way  in  which  our  society 
is  organized  tends  to  make  such  men  ; 
for  most  men  are  selfish  and  indolent, 
except  about  their  own  pleasures." 

I  stayed  ten  days  at  the  Priory, 
which  were  the  happiest  of  my  life  ; 
and  at  last  took  myself  off,  for  very 
shame.  But  erelong  I  returned  to  my 

little  inn  at  B ,  and  again  visited 

the  Priory  frequently,  although  without 
sleeping  there. 


A  Sequel  to  Mr.  Washington  Adams. 


One  morning  I  went  over  early,  and 
was  walking  through  the  park  by  a  lit- 
tle dell,  or  shaw,  about  three  quarters 
of  a  mile  from  the  house,  when  my  at- 
tention was  attracted  by  what  was  plain- 
ly a  splash  of  blood  upon  the  path  ; 
then  drops  large  and  frequent  stretched 
on  before  me,  and  they  were  fresh.  I 
followed  them  quickly,  arid  after  a  rod 
or  two  I  came  upon  a  sight  that  made 
my  heart  stand  still.  Miss  Duffield  lay 
across  the  path,  with  a  little  pool  of 
blood  by  her  side.  She  was  pale,  but 
conscious.  A  gleam  of  joy  came  from 
her  eyes,  as  I  sprang  forward  to  help 

Briefly,  this  had  happened  :  On  one 
of  her  walks,  she  had  seen,  on  a  dwarf 
tree  at  the  edge  of  the  shaw,  a  little 
cluster  of  leaves,  beautifully  discolored 
by  some  caprice  of  nature  ;  but  the  twig 
on  which  it  grew  was  so  tough,  and 
stretched  so  far  over  the  edge,  that  al- 
though she  could  touch  she  could  not 
break  it.  Therefore  this  morning  she 
had  brought  with  her  one  of  those  little 
clasp  pruning-knives  which  are  used  by 
amateur  gardeners  of  her  sex ;  and  lean- 
ing forward  she  was  able  to  cut  off  the 
twig,  which  she  at  once  thrust  into  the 
buttoned  opening  of  the  waist  of  her 
walking-dress,  and  was  about  shutting 
the  knife,  when  the  turf  yielded  on  the 
edge  where  she  was  standing,  and  she  fell 
forward  into  the  shaw.  The  fall  would 
have  been  of  little  importance,  although 
she  was  somewhat  bruised  and  strained  ; 
but  the  knife  was  driven  into  her  left 
wrist.  As  she  drew  it  out,  it  was  fol- 
lowed by  a  spurt  of  blood.  In  terror 
and  pain  she  managed  to  scramble  up  to 
the  path,  and  started  to  run  home ;  but 
the  wound  bled  freely,  and  after  run- 
ning a  few  yards  she  fell  fainting  to  the 
ground.  As  the  loss  of  blood  had  not 
yet  been  very  great,  the  horizontal  posi- 
tion, acting  upon  one  of  her  high  health 
and  strength,  brought  her  to  her  senses 
just  before  I  appeared. 

I  saw  at  once,  from  the  bright  color 

of  the  blood  and  its  regular  gush,  that 
she  had  cut  an  artery  clean  in  two. 
Grasping  her  arm  firmly,  I  said,  "  You 
must  let  me  help  you,  or  —  Will  you 
trust  yourself  to  me  ?  " 

«  Oh,  yes,  yes !  " 

And  now  my  experience  as  an  ama- 
teur assistant  in  our  soldiers'  hospitals, 
in  my  youth,  stood  me  in  good  stead. 
Cutting  her  sleeve  open  to  the  shoulder 
with  my  pocket-knife,  I  soon  made  an 
extempore  tourniquet  with  my  handker- 
chief and  a  small  pebble,  using  as  a  lever 
a  stout  twig  that  I  found  hard  by  ;  and 
it  was  hardly  more  than  a  minute  from 
the  time  when  I  found  her  before  I  had 
the  brachial  artery  compressed  and  the 
flow  of  blood  stopped.  But  what  to  do  ! 
I  could  not  leave  her  ;  and  although  I 
could  carry  her  a  little  way,  but  with 
danger  of  opening  the  artery  again,  of 
what  good  was  that  ?  Not  a  living  crea- 
ture was  within  sight,  and  we  were 
three  quarters  of  a  mile  from  the  house. 
Before  this  I  had  thought  of  the  isola- 
tion of  these  great  English  houses  ;  but 
now  it  came  upon  me  with  horror,  and 
with  cursings  in  my  heart.  She  did  not 
speak  one  word,  but  looked  at  me  in 

I  saw  a  little  knoll  near  by,  which 
would  give  me  a  farther  view.  I  raised 
her  as  gently  as  I  could,  and  laid  her 
by  the  side  of  the  path,  with  my  coat 
under  her  head.  I  ran  up  the  knoll, 
and  looked  about :  iu  vain.  I  called 
out  with  all  my  strength.  My  voice 
sounded  to  me  faint  and  hollow  and 
ghostly.  I  came  down  again  to  watch 
my  patient.  She  lay  quiet,  and,  opening 
her  eyes,  looked  at  me  with  calm  con- 
fidence. Then  stretching  out  her  un- 
wouuded  arm,  she  pressed  my  hand,  but 
did  not  speak.  Again  I  went  upon  the 
knoll,  and,  peering  about,  what  joy  to 
see  in  the  distance  a  young  rustic  fellow 
crossing  an  open  in  the  park  !  I  shouted 
and  threw  up  my  hands,  and  managed 
to  attract  his  attention,  and  to  turn  his 
steps  toward  me.  But  with  what  leaden 


A  Sequel  to  Mr.  Washington  Adams. 


feet  he  came  !  Yet  I  did  soon  bring 
him  to  quickening  his  pace,  and  when 
he  had  come  near  I  rushed  upon  him, 
saying,  "  My  lad,  don't  be  frightened. 
Here 's  a  lady  hurt.  You  understand 

«  Ees." 

"  It 's  Miss  Duffield,  Lady  Topping- 
ham's  cousin.  You  know  her  ?  " 

"Ees,  oi  knaw  un.  She  do  be  t' 
koindest  leddy  yereabaout." 

"  Well,  she  '11  die  if  she  is  not  helped. 
Get  a  wagon,  a  cart,  anything  on  wheels, 
just  as  quick  as  lightning.  You  under- 
stand ?  " 

"  Ees :  I  be  to  get  cairt  to  cairt  un 
up  to  aouse." 

I  was  about  to  offer  him  money  ;  but 
although  slow  of  speech,  he  was  ready 
in  action,  and  was  off  on  a  run. 

My  patient  I  found  doing  as  well  as 
I  could  hope  for.  We  neither  of  us 
spoke.  There  was  no  water  near;  I 
had  nothing  to  give  her.  She  stretched 
out  her  right  band  to  me  again  :  I  held 
it,  and  watched  my  tourniquet  in  silence. 
Such  a  silence  I  had  never  known  be- 
fore. I  heard  the  beating  of  my  heart, 
of  hers.  I  heard  the  light  breeze  sigh- 
ing a  sad  monotone ;  the  little  creakings 
of  the  tiny  insects  around  us.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  I  heard  the  grass  grow.  I 
saw  all  trifling  things  :  the  dry  twigs, 
the  odd  shape  of  some  of  the  leaves  upon 
the  shrubs,  the  very  grains  of  sand  in 
the  path.  I  saw  the  beauty  of  her  arm, 
and  remember  tracing  the  course  of  a 
blue  vein  down  its  inner  side.  I  saw 
that  the  little  cluster  of  leaves  which 
was  the  cause  of  all  this  woe  still  re- 
mained in  her  corsage. 

All  at  once  the  sound  of  quick  hoofs 
and  of  wheels,  —  not  farm-cart  wheels, 
but  light  wheels,  moving  rapidly,  thank 
God  !  —  and  in  a  few  moments  they 
stopped  where  the  path  went  out  of 
the  copse  upon  the  road,  and  help  ap- 
peared with  the  manly  form  and  troubled 
face  of  Captain  Surcingle.  He  had  been 
driving  through  the  park  in  a  light  dog- 

cart, on  some  jockeyish  business,  when 
he  was  seen  and  stopped  by  my  mes- 

Goose  as  his  cousin  called  him,  the 
captain  could  not  have  behaved  better. 
He  was  silent,  sympathetic,  attentive, 
helpful,  doing  without  a  word  just  what 
I  bade  him.  Keeping  Miss  Duffield's 
wounded  arm  across  her  body,  we  car- 
ried her  carefully  to  the  dog-cart,  and 
lifted  her  into  it.  I  told  her  that  I  should 
have  to  place  her  upon,  the  bottom  of 
the  cart,  and  rest  her  head  upon  my 
knee.  She  laid  it  there  without  a  word. 
I  wrote  a  few  lines  on  the  blank  leaf 
of  an  old  letter,  stating  the  case,  and 
gave  it  to  my  rustic  messenger,  telling 
him  to  get  it  to  the  village  surgeon  as 
soon  as  possible.  The  captain  mounted 
his  seat  and  gathered  up  the  reins, 
when,  turning  his  head,  he  saw  the  posi- 
tion of  my  patient. 

"  Oh,  I  say,  Mr.  Humfweys,  p'waps 
you  would  n't  mind  dwivin'.  I  should 
n't  inind  havin'  you.  You  see,  you  un- 
d'stand  hawses  in  'Mewica,  mebbe,  but 
you  don't  und'stand  sittiu'  in  dog-cahts, 
you  know." 

"  If  you  wish,  and  if  Miss  Duffield 
wishes  "  — 

The  weary  eyes  opened  on  me  with 
a  piteous  look;  and  she  said  faintly, 
"  Thanks,  dear  Jack ;  but  please  don't 
have  me  moved  again."  I  don't  know 
whether  dear  Jack  could  have  heard 
her,  but  I  cried  out,  — 

"  Never  mind,  captain  ;  no  time  for 
that.  Drive  on,  please !  Gently,  now." 

The  good  fellow  distinguished  him- 
self as  a  whip,  and  took  us  swiftly  to 
the  house,  and  as  softly  as  if  we  were 
driving  over  velvet.  Indeed,  his  knowl- 
edge of  the  park  enabled  him  to  cut  off 
turns  and  corners,  and  to  take  almost  a 
straight  line  over  the  grass 

o  o 

Needless  to  tell  you  the  commotion 
at  the  Priory.  Miss  Duffield  was  soon 
in  bed ;  and  erelong  the  surgeon  ar- 
rived on  horseback.  The  artery  must 
be  taken  up,  of  course.  He  needed  help, 


A  Sequel  to  Mr'.  Washington  Adams. 


and  asked  for  the  gentleman  who  ap- 
plied that  tourniquet.  The  consequence 
was  that  I  assisted  at  the  little  opera- 
tion, while  Lady  Toppinghain  held  the 
patient's  other  hand,  and  Mrs.  Timmins 
stood  by  to  give  any  help  that  might  be 
necessary.  She  underwent  the  opera- 
tion in  perfect  silence.  I  did  not  look 
at  her  while  it  was  performed,  and  after 
the  bandage  was  applied  I  immediately 
left  the  room.  As  I  passed  around  the 
foot  of  the  bed  she  opened  her  eyes 
and  smiled  ;  I  bowed  silently,  and  have 
not  seen  her  since.  But  from  that  time 
I  have  been  at  the  Priory,  Dr.  Catlin 
having  expressed  a  wish  that  I  should 
remain  for  two  or  three  days. 

This  happened  last  Monday  morning  ; 
and  every  day  the  report  has  been  that 
she  was  doing  as  well  as  possible.  In- 
deed, as  it  turned  out,  the  accident  which 
might  have  been  mortal  was  really  of 
no  grave  consequence.  Therefore,  this 
morning,  all  the  household  went  to 
church,  leaving  her  in  the  care  of  nurse 

NOTE.  It  is  difficult  for  me  to  discover  the  re- 
lation of  the  latter  part  of  Mr.  Mansfield  Hum- 
phreys' letter  to  Mr.  Washington  Adams's  visit  to 
Toppington  Priory,  or  to  the  subject  of  my  friend's 
colloquy  with  Lord  Toppingham  in  the  railway 
car.  Doubtless  the  incidents  which  he  relates 
were  of  profound  interest  to  the  parties  directly 
concerned  in  them ;  and  they  have  an  obvious  ten- 
dency to  complications  of  which  we  may  possibh' 
learn  something  hereafter.  The  publication  in 
England,  to  which  he  refers,  of  the  account  given 
in  The  Atlantic  of  the  colloquy  and  the  visit,  as  a 
little  book,  was  entirely  at  the  suggestion  and  re- 
quest of  the  publisher,  with  whom  I  had  had  no 
previous  communication,  and  who  proposed  it  be- 
cause he  thought  that  it  would  be  the  means  of 
diffusing  some  useful  and  much-needed  informa- 
tion. It  has  been  the  subject  of  some  animadver- 
sions by  a  writer  in  a  well-fcnown  London  publica- 
tion, which  are  of  such  a  nature  that  a  very  brief 
examination  of  a  few  of  them  may  be  profitable. 
The  little  book  seems  to  have  disturbed  the  diges- 
tion, and  certainty  to  have  deranged  the  intellect, 
of  the  critic.  He  has  even  been  wholly  unable  to 
apprehend  its  purpose.  "It  is  meant,"  lie  says, 
"  to  give,  so  far  as  it  goes,  an  essentially  accurate 
picture  of  what  English  society  actually  is."  This 
is  amazing.  Such  a  picture  its  writer  had,  in- 
deed, endeavored  to  paint  in  a  previous  book, 
England  Without  and  Within,  which  has  been 
found  by  some  British  critics  almost  too  flatter- 
ing. The  purpose  of  Mr.  Washington  Adams,  on 
the  contrary,  was  solely  to  give  to  tha  many  Brit- 

and  housekeeper,  while  I  shut  myself  in 
my  room  to  write  to  you. 

After  a  while  I  was  interrupted  by  a 
gentle  knock  at  my  door.  It  was  the 
maid  who,  at  the  Priory,  specially  waits 
on  her ;  for  she  has  no  maid  of  her 

"  Please,  sir,"  she  said,  "  Miss  Duf- 
field's  compliments,  and  she 's  very  much 
better  this  morning.  Nothing  now  only 
a  little  weakness.  She  thought  she 
would  put  her  arm  in  a  sling,  and  come 
down  ;  but  the  doctor  would  n't  pummit. 
An'  please,  sir,  would  you  find  her  a  nice 
book.  An'  she  sends  you  this,"  hold- 
ing out  to  me  what  I  recognized  as  the 
cluster  of  leaves  which  I  had  seen  in 
her  corsage  that  morning.  On  one  of 
the  leaves  was  a  little  drop  of  blood, 
which  I  have  not  washed  off. 

This  is  all  I  have  to  tell  you  now. 
Should  there  be  anything  more  here- 
after which  would  interest  you,  I  shall 
write.  Faithfully  yours, 


ish  readers  of  The  Atlantic  some  information  (as 
simply  and  baldly  true  as  that  two  and  two  are 
four)  about  "America  and  the  Americans,"  which, 
as  its  intelligent  and  enterprising  Edinburgh  pub- 
lisher saw,  was  really  much  needed  by  a  very 
considerable  part  of  the  British  public.  That  the 
ignorance  thus  assumed  does  really  exist,  even 
among  many  of  the  most  cultivated,  best  bred, 
and  most  estimable  members  of  that  society,  no 
one  acquainted  with  it  can  doubt. 

On  one  or  two  special  points  the  critic  referred 
to  takes  exceptions,  as  to  which  it  may  be  well 
that  he  should  be  put  to  his  purgation.  One  of 
these  is  that  a  man  of  Lord  Toppingham's  rank 
and  breeding  is  represented  as  dropping  his  final 
^'s  in  ing  and  the  r  in  words  like  pardon.  The 
language  of  the  personages  in  Mr.  Washington 
Adams  was  put  into  their  mouths  merely  from  my 
own  observation ;  but  on  looking  into  the  matter 
there  is  the  best  British  authority  for  it.  Punch 
is  not  without  examples  of  such  talk  by  such  peo- 
ple; and  it  could  not  otherwise  be  faithful.  For 
example,  Punch,  September  6,  1873,  under  the 
heading  Evil  Communications,  etc.  Scene,  a  pas- 
try cook's  ;  a  governess,  with  her  young  mascu- 
line charge. 

"  Lord  Reginald.  Ain't  yer  goin'  to  have  some 
puddin',  Miss  Richards  ?  It 's  so  jolly. 

"  Governess.  There  again,  Reginald !  Pudding 
—  goin',  —  Ain't  yer  !  That 's  the  way  Jim  Bates 
and  Dolly  Maple  speak  ;  and  Jim  's  a  stable-boy, 
and  Dolly 's  a  dairy-maid. 

"  Lord  Reginald.  Ah!  but  that's  the  way  fa- 

1884.]  A  Sequel  to  Mr.  Washington  Adams. 


ther  and  mother  speak,  too !  And  father 's  a  duke, 
and  mother 's  a  duchess  !  So,  there  !  " 

And  again,  the  same  volume,  under  the  heading, 
Fragment  of  Fashionable  Conversation:  Scene,  a 
first-class  railway  carriage,  — 

"Little  Swelled.  1.    Huntin',  to-day,"  etc. 

Indeed,  the  point  is  indisputable.  There  is  no 
more  authoritative  observer  upon  this  subject  than 
Mr.  Alexander  Ellis,  F.  R.  S.,  etc.,  the  eminent 
author  of  the  great  work  on  English  Pronuncia- 
tion ;  and  he  represents  (Part  IV.,  p.  1211),  no  less 
a  person  than  Professor  Jowett,  Master  of  Balliol 
College,  Oxford,  as  saying  in  one  of  his  lectures, 
"attachin1  'imself  to  'im,"  instead  of  "attaching 
himself  to  him."  All  this,  however,  is  probably, 
as  I  have  already  conjecturally  indicated  in  Eng- 
land Without  and  Within,  but  a  relic  of  the  good 
usage  of  a  not  remote  past. 

As  to  the  dropped  r,  the  same  high  authority 
(Mr.  Ellis)  records  the  following  examples  (idem, 
pp.  1212,  1213).  Dr.  Hooper,  president  of  the 
British  Association,  said  "eitha,  neitha,  unda- 
taken  "  (for  either,  neither,  undertaken);  a  peer, 
"  obse'ving,  brighta,  conve'sant,  direc'ta,  pa'cels  " 
(for  observing,  brighter,  conversant,  parcels);  cer- 
tain professional  and  commercial"  men,  "  futsha 
boa'd,  rema'ks  "  (for  future,  board,  remarks).  [I 
look  only  to  the  consonants,  and  ask  Mr.  Ellis's 
pahdon,  if  I  have  thus  misrepresented  his  vowel 
sounds.]  This  point  may  be  dismissed  without 
further  consideration.  But  I  admit  with  pleasure 
that  I  never  heard  a  well-born,  well-bred  person  in 
England  say  "  yer  "  for  you  ;  possibly,  Mr.  Punch 
might  suggest,  because  the  range  of  my  social  ob- 
servation stopped  one  grade  below  the  ducal  rank. 

Lady  Boreham  and  the  society  at  Boreham  Hall 
seem  chiefly  to  afflict  this  critic.  He  appears  to  re- 
sent as  a  personal  insult  this  little  passing  glimpse 
of  one  limited  variety  of  life  in  England;  and  al- 
though it  is  a  mere  link,  a  coupling  between  the 
first  and  the  second  parts  of  the  little  sketch,  only 
an  incidental  bit  of  machinery  to  make  the  rest 
work  together,  he  devotes  most  of  his  attention  to 
it,  and  will  have  it  that  the  Boreham  people  are  set 
forth  as  "  the  English,"  just  as  the  Washington 
Adams's  have  been  held  up  for  half  a  century  in 
England  as  "  the  Americans."  He  is  woeful  be- 
cause Lady  Boreham  is  represented  "  almost  ex- 
actly as  the  French  caricature  Englishwomen." 
The  coincidence  is  remarkable,  and  somewhat  sig- 
nificant ;  for  I  have  never  been  in  France  :  nor  have 
I  ever  seen  any  French  caricatures  of  English  peo- 
ple, except  those  in  Gavarni's  London,  in  which 
I  remember  no  such  figure  as  Lady  Boreham. 
She  is  as  exact  a  picture  as  I  could  make,  in  the 
little  time  and  space  that  I  could  gire  to  her,  of  a. 
sort  of  woman  who  is  not  very  uncommon  in  Eng- 
land, but  to  whom  this  little  sketch  portrait  is  my 
first  and  only  reference.  I  grieve  that  my  re- 
viewer takes  her  so  sorely  to  heart;  and  if  he  real- 
ly believes  that  she  was  presented  as  the  typical 

Englishwoman,  I  sympathize  with  him  cordially. 
For  I  do  not  say  here  for  the  first  time  how  charm- 
ing I  found  the  sex  in  England,  whatever  their 
rank  or  condition.  But  is  it  not  permitted  to  hint 
that  there  is  one  woman  in  England  who  is  not 
absolute  in  feminine  charm  ?  And  hare  our  Brit- 
ish friends  become  so  sensitive,  are  their  mental 
integuments  so  excoriated,  that  they  cannot  have 
it  said  that  there  is  one  household  in  England 
which  is  characterized  by  dull  respectability? 
Truly  it  makes  a  difference  when,  the  name  being 
changed,  of  thee  the  fable  is  narrated.  My  critic 
seems,  as  he  read,  to  have  taken  off  his  skin  and 
sat  in  his  nerves. 

One  grievance  heavily  alleged  is  that  this  lady 
"drops  all  her  A's;"  this  being  done  in  a  way 
that  conveys  a  notion  that  her  speech  is  the  repre- 
sentative speech  of  the  book,  —  an  old  and  not 
very  admirable  device  of  injurious  criticism. 
Moreover,  the  assertion  is  absolutely  untrue.  If 
I  had  so  represented  Lady  Boreham's  speech,  I 
should  have  been  guilty  of  deliberate  slander. 
The  truth  is  that  she,  the  least  important  person- 
age of  all  that  appear,  speaks  just  six  times !  In 
only  one  instance  does  she  utter  more  than  a  dozen 
words !  She  uses  words  beginning  with  h  only 
eleven  times  in  all;  and  all  of  these,  every  one,  she 
aspirates,  just  as  the  other  personages  do,  except 
two,  home  and  hotel  !  Now  if  any  general  asser- 
tion ma}'  be  safely  made  as  to  English-speaking 
in  England,  it  is  that  only  a  very  few  among  the 
highest  bred  and  most  thoroughly  educated  per- 
sons say  home  and  hotel.  A  man  who  is  so  pre- 
cise in  his  aspirations  as  to  say  humorous  (which 
thirty  years  ago  no  one  said)  will  yet  say  'otel  al- 
ways, and  'ome  whenever  the  word  is  preceded  by 
a  consonant.  Even  the  women,  whose  speech,  in 
almost  all  conditions  of  life,  it  is  worth  a  voyage 
to  hear,  say  Jome  and  'otel. 

My  critic,  howerer,  makes  one  admission  which 
atones  for  all  his  misrepresentation,  intentional  or 
unintentional.  He  says  that  my  friend  Hum- 
phreys, in  his  masquerade,  "  deliberately  makes  a 
beast  of  himself."  I  don't  agree  with  him  any 
more  than  Lady  Toppingham  does,  or  my  corre- 
spondents do.  Humphreys  merely  showed  the 
company  at  the  Priory  a  concentrated  representa- 
tion of  certain  rude,  grotesque  forms  of  life.  But 
the  personage  which  he  "  disfigured  or  presented  " 
is  not  new  to  the  British  public,  but  a  very  old 
acquaintance,  indeed.  He  is  merely  the  man  who 
has  figured  on  their  stage,  in  their  fiction,  in  their 
serial  literature,  in  their  illustrated  books,  for 
more  than  half  a  century  as  "the  American;" 
and  my  reviewer  thus  admits  that  during  that 
time  British  authors  and  journalists  and  artists 
(see  Punch  passim)  have  been  presenting  "the 
Americans"  to  their  world  as  —  beasts.  The 
word  is  his,  not  mine.  With  Phedre  I  can  say 
(Test  toi  qui  fas  nomme.  He  has  fully  justified 
Mansfield  Humphrey*. 

.Richard  Grant  White. 


The  Political  Field. 



THE  state  elections  of  last  fall  dis- 
closed results  which  surprised  the  politi- 
cians of  both  parties,  and  developed  new 
conditions  and  probabilities  for  the  ap- 
proaching presidential  contest  of  1884. 
These  results  showed  that  the  two  great 
national  political  organizations  are  still 
of  nearly  equal  force  in  the  important 
States  of  the  North  that  have  hereto- 
fore been  the  ground  of  sharpest  con- 
flict in  national  campaigns,  and  that  in 
spite  of  all  the  ferment  of  new  issues 
of  the  past  three  years  no  new  organ- 
ization has  arisen  of  sufficient  strength 
to  be  culled  a  party,  or  even  a  respect- 
able faction.  The  voting  population  is 
still  divided  into  two  great  camps,  — 
Republican  and  Democratic.  What  lies 
outside  of  those  camps,  in  the  way  of 
temperance  associations  and  labor -re- 
form leagues,  produces  some  effect  in 
state  canvasses  when  allied  with  one  or 
the  other  of  the  great  parties,  but  stand- 
ing alone  cannot  much  affect  results, 
and  i^not  likely  to  play  any  appreciable 
part  in  the  coming  presidential  cam- 
paign. The  vital,  potent  political  forces 
still  gather  under  the  old  ensigns,  al- 
though it  would  be  hard  for  any  one  to 
say  just  what  those  ensigns  now  signify. 

Further,  the  late  elections  showed 
that  the  great  wave  of  Democratic  suc- 
cess of  1882  brought  about  no  perma- 
nent change  in  the  convictions  of  the 
voters.  The  Republican  defeats  of  that 
year  were  so  overwhelming  that  short- 
sighted prophets  predicted  the  speedy 
death  of  the  party.  There  seemed  to 
be  a  hopeless  disintegration  of  the  Re- 
publican forces.  Party  discipline  could 
not  be  enforced,  and  appeals  to  party 
feeling  were  ineffectual  to  bring  the 
voters  into  line.  New  York,  a  Repub- 
lican State  in  1880,  elected  a  Demo- 
cratic governor  by  192,000  majority. 
Pennsylvania,  which  had  been  steadily 

Republican  for  twenty  years,  except  in 
1874,  gave  the  Democratic  candidate 
for  governor  48,000  majority  over  his 
Republican  competitor.  Massachusetts, 
which  had  only  once  refused  the  Repub- 
licans a  majority  since  their  party  was 
formed  in  1854,  put  in  the  state  house 
a  man  peculiarly  objectionable  to  them, 
because  he  had  deserted  them  as  soon 
as  their  victories  began  to  cost  some  ef- 

Nothing  seemed  plainer,  after  the 
elections  of  1882,  than  that  the  Dem- 
ocrats had  the  prize  of  the  presidency 
already  in  their  grasp.  They  had  won 
their  victories,  not  by  presenting  any 
new  issues,  but  simply  by  appealing  to 
the  dissatisfaction  of  the  voters  with  the 
course  of  the  Republican  leaders.  Gen- 
eral Garfield  used  to  say  that  every 
man  in  public  life  has  a  precipice  ahead 
of  him,  —  how  near  he  cannot  know,  — 
towards  which  he  is  steadily  marching. 
It  may  be  far  off  or  close  at  hand,  but 
sooner  or  later  he  will  fall  over  it.  As 
with  the  politician,  so  with  a  party.  It 
cannot  always  hold  the  favor  of  the 
majority  and  keep  itself  in  power.  The 
longer  the  career  of  success  behind  it, 
the  greater  the  probability  that  its  pre- 
cipice of  defeat  is  close  ahead.  The 
elections  of  1882  appeared  to  be  the 
first  descents  of  the  precipice,  the  sheer 
fall  of  which  was  to  come  in  1884. 

Nor  did  the  October  elections  of 
1883  indicate  any  change  in  the  current 
of  Republican  disaster.  Iowa,  always 
Republican,  was  carried  with  difficulty, 
growing  out  of  the  prominence  of  the 
prohibition  question;  but  Ohio,  which 
had  regularly  been  carried  by  that  party 
the  year  before  a  presidential  election, 
went  Democratic,  in  spite  of  the  polit- 
ical vagaries  and  want  of  personal  pop- 
ularity of  the  Democratic  candidate  for 
governor.  It  is  true  that  in  Ohio  the 


liquor  question  complicated  the  contest 
to  the  prejudice  of  the  Republicans.  In 
reason  it  should  not  have  done  so,  be- 
cause the  Republican  legislature  gave  the 
people  a  fair  chance  to  choose  between 
two  constitutional  amendments,  —  one 
for  prohibition  and  the  other  for  license ; 
and  the  Scott  law,  which  imposed  heavy 
taxes  on  drinking-saloons,  proved  pop- 
ular, and  ought  logically  to  have  drawn 
to  the  Republicans  the  ultra  -  temper- 
ance vote,  if  that  vote  were  ever  logical 
or  practical.  Probably  the  Republicans 
would  have  carried  Ohio  if  the  question 
of  how  to  deal  with  whiskey-selling  had 
been  shut  out  of  the  canvass ;  but  the 
Democrats  refused  to  admit  this,  and 
they  gained  in  other  States  all  the  en- 
couragement and  momentum  of  a  great 
victory  in  the  State  that  had  long  been 
the  key  of  the  Republican  position. 

Thus  everything  appeared  to  be  in 
their  favor  in  the  November  elections. 
Yet  without  any  marked  activity  or  en- 
thusiasm on  the  part  of  their  opponents, 
and  in  fact  with  hardly  a  respectable 
show  of  campaign  organization  to  con- 
tend with  except  in  Massachusetts,  they 
were  beaten  in  the  three  pivotal  States 
of  New  York,  Pennsylvania,  and  Massa- 
chusetts, which  they  had  carried  so  easily 
the  year  before.  In  Pennsylvania,  the 
40,000  majority  for  Pattison  in  1882 
was  changed  to  a  majority  of  16,000 
for  the  head  of  the  Republican  ticket. 
In  New  York,  Governor  Cleveland's 
prodigious  majority  of  192,000  was  all 
swept  away,  and  the  Republican  candi- 
date for  secretary  of  state,  General  Carr, 
was  elected  by  about  17,000  majority. 
The  Democrats  pulled  through  the  rest 
of  their  state  ticket,  it  is  true,  and  were 
able  to  attribute  the  defeat  of  their  lead- 
ing candidate  to  his  views  on  the  tem- 
perance question  ;  but  the  result,  com- 
pared with  that  of  the  previous  year, 
was  none  the  less  for  them  a  mortifying 
disaster.  In  Massachusetts,  the  previous 
year,  General  Butler,  after  long  effort 
and  by  the  exercise  of  political  adroit- 

The  Political  Field. 


ness  and  audacity  that  reached  the 
height  of  genius,  had  managed  to  weld 
together  into  a  majority  party  all  the 
odds  and  ends  of  new  movements  and 
old  factions  —  labor  reformers,  commu- 
nists, greenbackers,  woman  suffragists 
and  idealists,  and  agitators  of  various 
creeds  —  in  connection  with  the  old 
Democratic  party  of  the  State.  His  year 
in  the  gubernatorial  chair  can  hard- 
ly be  said  to  have  disappointed  any  of 
his  miscellaneous  suppoiters.  Like  Syd- 
ney Smith's  flea,  he  displayed  a  diabol- 
ical activity.  He  was  always  reforming 
something  or  other,  and  by  constantly 
keeping  himself  in  the  public  eye  he 
was  able  to  assume  at  all  times  a  dra- 
matic attitude  of  leadership,  well  calcu- 
lated to  work  upon  the  imagination  of  his 
followers.  Yet  when  the  ballots  were 
counted,  his  majority  of  14,000  was 
found  to  have  disappeared,  and  Mr.  Rob- 
inson, his  antagonist,  came  off  victorious 
by  10,000  votes. 

Only  in  one  contested  State  did  the 
Democrats  win  a  victory,  and  there  their 
success  was  of  great  importance  and  ad- 
vantage in  the  presidential  struggle,  — 
not  to  them,  but  to  the  Republicans. 
That  State  was  Virginia.  Paradoxical 
though  the  statement  may  seem  at  first 
thought,  the  Democratic  triumph  in  that 
quarter  strengthens  the  whole  Repub- 
lican line  for  the  approaching  national 
campaign.  Senator  Mahone,  who  led 
the  opposition  to  the  regular  Democracy 
in  Virginia,  is  to  that  State  what  Gener- 
al Butler  is  to  Massachusetts.  He  rep- 
resents the  elements  of  ignorance,  discon- 
tent, irresponsibility  to  social  restraints, 
and  disorganization  of  established  con- 
ditions. To  the  negro  voters  he  had 
joined  the  lower  classes  of  the  white 
voters  into  a  motley  organization,  called 
the  Readjuster  party.  His  assertion  that 
the  state  debt  could  not  and  should  not 
be  paid  in  full  attracted  to  him  the 
thriftless  small  farmers ;  the  careless 
mountaineers,  who  live  on  one  small 
corn-patch,  a  few  hogs,  and  a  rifle ; 


The  Political  Field. 


and  the  idle  politicians  of  the  county 
towns.  The  Republican  leaders  turned 
over  the  colored  vote  to  him  because  he 
promised  them  success  and  offices.  He 
had  a  small  contingent  of  admirers  in 
Washington,  —  men  who  hang  on  the 
skirts  of  the  administration,  and  whose 
knowledge  of  Southern  politics  is  gath- 
ered in  the  hotel  lobbies  of  that  city. 
These  men  appeared  at  one  time  to  have 
persuaded  the  President  that  Mahone 
must  be  supported  as  an  "  entering 
wedge  "  to  split  the  solid  South,  and 
that  if  he  were  successful  this  year  it 
would  be  feasible  next  year  for  the  Re- 
publicans to  carry  three  or  four  South- 
ern States.  The  "  Mahone  alliance,"  as 
the  political  scheme  concocted  in  Wash- 
ington was  called,  was  utterly  distaste- 
ful to  the  Republican  masses  of  the 
North,  —  a  foundation  stone  in  whose 
political  faith  was  the  honest  payment 
of  public  debts  in  exact  accordance  with 
contracts.  The  ablest  of  the  Republi- 
can leaders  repudiated  it  openly ;  all 
regarded  it  as  indefensible  before  North- 
ern constituencies.  Now  that  the  Vir- 
ginia alliance  is  broken  up  by  the  fail- 
ure of  Mahone  to  carry  the  election, 
the  Republican  party  is  well  rid  of  a 
load  which  threatened  to  break  it  down 
in  the  coming  campaign.  Tt  will  hence- 
forth have  no  bargains  and  trades  with 
state-debt  readjusters  or  repudiators  to 

When  we  come  to  look  for  the  causes 
which  have  brought  about  a  reaction  in 
favor  of  the  Republicans,  the  good  con- 
duct of  the  national  administration  must 
be  given  the  first  place.  After  the  ri- 
diculous defeat  of  President  Arthur's 
candidate  for  governor  of  New  York  in 
1882,  the  administration  let  state  politics 
sedulously  alone,  excepting  some  little 
countenance  given  to  Mahone.  It  may 
almost  be  said  to  have  let  national  poli- 
tics alone,  too.  President  Arthur  has 
made  a  King  Log  kind  of  administra- 
tion, because  he  had  the  sagacity  to  see, 
after  the  failure  of  his  attempts  at  activ- 

ity, that  the  policy  of  drifting  was  the 
only  one  likely  to  heal  Republican  dis- 
sensions and  rehabilitate  the  party.  Any 
effort  on  his  part  to  become  a  positive 
force  in  politics  would  have  revived  old 
antagonisms  and  produced  new  ones. 
The  people  never  fully  trust  a  Vice- 
President  who  succeeds  to  the  executive 
chair.  They  say,  "  We  did  not  put  that 
man  there ;  "  and  if  he  seeks  to  urge  any 
particular  line  of  action  upon  his  party 
or  upon  Congress,  they  are  apt  to  say, 
"  The  good  man  whom  we  elected,  and 
whom  death  removed  from  office,  would 
not  have  behaved  in  that  way."  In 
short,  they  are  offended  if  he  exercises 
the  full  measure  of  the  powers  and  priv- 
ileges of  his  position,  and  are  best  satis- 
fied if  he  merely  administers  the  office 
in  a  business-like  way,  leaving  questions 
of  policy  for  his  party  to  determine,  with- 
out his  interference.  In  this  spirit  Mr. 
Arthur  has  of  late  discharged  his  du- 
ties; doing  a  good  deal  of  traveling  and 
fishing,  attending  to  the  routine  business 
of  the  Executive  with  intelligence  and 
fairness,  and  letting  politics  take  care 
of  themselves.  The  effect  upon  the  Re- 
publican party  has  been  salutary.  The 
old  factions  find  no  fresh  cause  of  quar- 
rel with  him  or  with  each  other,  and 
his  quiet,  decorous,  undemonstrative  ad- 
ministration has  afforded  the  Democrats 
no  point  of  attack.  Mr.  Arthur  is  en- 
titled to  the  credit  of  being  the  first  Vice- 
President  succeeding  to  the  presidency 
in  our  history  who  has  strengthened  his 
party.  All  the  others,  Tyler,  Fillmore, 
and  Johnson,  were  disorganizes. 

The  Republicans  also  gathered  some 
strength  from  local  causes.  In  Penn- 
sylvania, the  "  reform  "  administration 
of  Governor  Pattison,  which  took  office 
with  much  eclat,  failed  to  meet  expecta- 
tions, and  irritated  the  voters  by  bring- 
ing about  a  tedious,  expensive,  and  un- 
necessary extra  session  of  the  legisla- 
ture ;  in  New  York,  the  phenomenal 
majority  governor,  Cleveland,  proved  a 
commonplace  though  fairly  competent 


The  Political  Field. 


executive,  and  demonstrated  no  real  fit- 
ness for  party  leadership ;  in  Massachu- 
setts, Governor  Butler's  investigating 
zeal,  his  efforts  to  "  stir  things  up,"  and 
his  scheme  of  basing  political  power  on 
the  discontent  and  communistic  tenden- 
cies of  the  laboring  classes  in  factory 
towns  gave  the  Republicans  an  opportu- 
nity to  rally  the  stable,  property-own- 
ing classes  against  him.  It  is  a  notice- 
able fact,  however,  that  national  issues 
played  no  appreciable  part  in  these  state 
canvasses,  and  that  in  New  York,  where 
the  result  was  most  significant,  there 
was  no  particular  state  issue.  Indeed, 
there  can  hardly  be  said  to  have  been 
any  campaign  in  that  State,  in  the  usual 
significance  of  the  word.  The  two  par- 
ties nominated  their  tickets  and  appoint- 
ed their  committees,  but  there  were  few 
public  meetings  held,  and  the  columns 
of  the  newspapers  gave  little  evidence 
that  an  election  was  approaching.  The 
great  Republican  gain  in  New  York 
must  be  attributed  chiefly  to  the  re- 
newed vitality  of  the  party  as  a  national 

Besides  the  revival  of  the  Republic- 
an party  in  the  Northern  States,  the  re- 
cent elections  show  that  that  party  is 
gaining  no  new  footholds  in  the  South, 
—  a  fact  to  be  regretted  by  all  patriotic 
men.  Every  State  which  joined  the  re- 
bellion is  going  to  cast  its  electoral  vote, 
next  fall,  for  the  Democratic  candidate 
for  President,  whoever  he  may  be.  In 
no  one  of  them  will  there  be  a  contest 
su«h  as  will  be  carried  on  in  every 
Northern  State.  All  will  be  strongly, 
hopelessly  Democratic,  as  a  matter  of 
sentiment  and  sympathy  coming  down 
from  the  war  period  and  the  epoch  of 
reconstruction  ;  not  because  the  Dem- 
ocratic party  now  proposes  to  do  any- 
thing the  Southern  people  want  done, 
or  because  the  Republican  party  advo- 
cates any  measures  they  favor,  but  pure- 
ly from  feeling  and  tradition.  It  is 
high  time  for  the  influential  classes  of 
the  South  to  develop  healthful  political 

antagonisms  among  themselves,  but  they 
are  evidently  not  going  to  do  so  in  sea- 
son to  affect  the  coming  presidential 
contest.  The  solid  South  will  still  exist, 
to  throw  its  great  electoral  vote  in  a 
lump  into  the  scales.  The  Democratic 
p'arty  will  again  be  able  to  count  upon 
that  vote  as  assured  in  advance  and 
without  effort,  and  thus  to  concentrate 
the  campaign  activities  upon  the  task 
of  adding  to  it  forty-five  electoral  votes 
from  the  entire  North.  That  this  con- 
dition of  things  is  lamentable,  no  thought- 
ful man  who  looks  beyond  mere  party 
success  will  fail  to  perceive ;  but  it  ex- 
ists, and  there  is  no  present  help  for  it. 
The  Northern  States  are  the  only  bat- 
tlefields of  the  next  contest;  the  States 
south  of  the  Potomac  and  the  Ohio  are 
not  debatable  ground. 

At  the  same  time,  there  is  good  rea- 
son to  believe  that  this  continued  solid- 
ity of  the  South  will  not  be  a  dominant 
topic  of  discussion  in  the  canvass,  and 
will  not  enter  as  an  important  factor  in 
the  result  in  the  presidential  election  in 
the  Northern  States  ;  I  mean  that  the 
voters  will  not  be  urged  to  make  the 
Northern  States  solidly  Republican  be- 
cause the  Southern  States  persist  in  be- 
ing solidly  Democratic.  We  have  had 
enough  of  that  sectional  cry  in  the  past. 
If  the  Republican  party  is  to  be  contin- 
ued in  power,  it  should  be  because  it 
has  practical  and  immediate  purposes 
for  the  good  of  the  country,  promising 
wise  legislation  and  prudent  adminis- 
tration and  honest  dealing  with  new  is- 
sues, and  not  because  the  South  obsti- 
nately clings  to  an  obsolete  sentiment  of 
sectionalism.  Intelligent  people  in  the 
North  know  that  the  Southern  people 
are  no  longer  seeking  to  change  any- 
thing in  the  constitution  or  the  statutes 
established  as  the  result  of  the  war ; 
that  they  cherish  no  plans  for  the  divis- 
ion of  the  country,  or  the  denial  of 
rights  to  the  blacks ;  that  they  differ 
among  themselves  on  living  national  is- 
sues ;  and,  in  a  word,  that  they  are  now 


The  Political  Field. 

patriotic,  prosperous  citizens  of  the  re- 
public, with  abundance  of  sectional  feel- 
ing and  prejudice  still,  but  with  abso- 
lutely no  sectional  aims.  The  Repub- 
lican party  will  do  well  to  let  them 
alone  to  wear  out  their  stupid  provincial 
sentiment  of  fidelity  to  a  single  party, 
and  make  its  fight  with  little  regard  to 
the  fact  that  they  have  prejudged  the 
general  question  between  the  parties, 
and  determined  to  throw  their  States 
solidly  on  one  side. 

We  therefore  see  that,  without  taking 
account  of  the  changes  in  public  senti- 
ment which  may  be  effected  by  the  do- 
ings of  Congress  at  its  present  session, 
the  prospects  for  the  near  presidential 
contest  are  that  the  two  old  parties  will 
face  each  other  in  the  Northern  States 
with  about  the  same  show  of  relative 
strength,  distributed  in  about  the  same 
way,  as  in  1880.  A  close  and  exciting 
campaign  will  probably  ensue.  Yet  it 
is  difficult  to  foresee  what  the  parties 
are  going  to  fight  about.  No  important 
public  question,  now  alive  and  open,  di- 
vides them.  Towards  no  such  question 
does  one  party  take  a  decided  and  unani- 
mous affirmative  position,  and  the  other 
an  equally  decided  and  unanimous  neg- 
ative. Let  us  name  some  public  ques- 
tions, and  apply  the  test :  civil  service 
reform,  the  internal  revenue  system,  the 
tariff,  national  banking,  silver  currency, 
postal  telegraphy,  the  disposition  of  the 
surplus  in  the  treasury,  internal  improve- 
ments, the  restoration  of  our  ocean  com- 
merce, the  construction  of  a  navy,  a  posi- 
tive foreign  policy,  —  is  there  any  one  of 
these  topics  of  current  national  interest 
concerning  which  the  two  parties  take 
issue  ?  It  may  be  said  that  a  majority 
of  the  Republican  party  favor  the  civil 
service  system,  recently  introduced,  and 
that  a  majority  of  the  Democrats  do  not ; 
that  a  majority  of  the  Democratic  party 
oppose  the  protective  tariff  system,  and 
a  majority  of  the  Republicans  sustain  it ; 
and  so  on  through  most  of  the  list :  but 
in  each  question  there  is  a  minority  of 


one  party  siding  with  a  majority  of  the 
other.  In  this  muddled  condition  of 
opinion,  neither  party  seems  willing  to 
select  a  few  questions,  formulate  them 
plainly,  assume  a  positive  attitude  to- 
wards them,  and  ask  the  verdict  of  the 
voters  upon  them.  Unless  the  situation 
is  changed  this  winter,  we  are  likely  to 
have  nothing  better  than  a  bundle  of 
patriotic  platitudes  and  political  truisms 
presented  in  the  party  platforms,  which 
nobody  will  care  a  straw  about. 

In  such  an  event  the  struggle  will 
largely  turn  upon  the  popularity  of  the 
candidates.  In  old  times,  when  the 
country  newspapers  placed  mottoes  un- 
der their  headings,  one  much  in  use 
was,  "  Measures,  not  men."  We  are 
likely  to  have  a  campaign  of  men,  not 
measures.  If  each  of  the  great  par- 
ties fails  to  present  any  measures  as  dis- 
tinctively its  own,  then  the  independent 
and  unattached  voters,  who  hold  the  bal- 
ance of  power,  will  take  their  choice  be- 
tween the  presidential  candidates,  on  the 
ground  of  their  relative  personal  fit- 
ness for  the  place.  Such  a  choice  would 
be  entirely  legitimate.  If  there  are  no 
national  questions  at  issue,  then  sensible 
men  may  well  make  up  their  minds 
which  of  the  two  candidates  for  the 
chief  magistracy  shows  the  better  rec- 
ord and  the  better  promise  for  statesman- 
like performance  in  the  White  House. 
A  contest  over  the  respective  merits  of 
two  strong  candidates  would  not  be 
altogether  regrettable,  provided  it  did 
not  degenerate  into  slander  and  abuse, 
as  presidential  campaigns  have,  of  late, 
shown  a  tendency  to  do.  A  little  hero- 
worship,  now  and  then,  is  not  a  bad 
thing  for  a  nation.  If  the  Republicans 
should  nominate  a  man  like  Senator 
Edmunds,  and  the  Democrats  a  man 
like  Senator  Bayard,  the  parties  might 
as  well  dispense  with  platforms,  and 
conduct  the  canvass  on  the  records  and 
character  of  the  two  men,  as  to  put  forth 
a  series  of  sonorous,  empty  resolutions. 
It  would  be  altogether  better,  however, 


The  Political  Field. 


if  one  of  the  parties,  at  least,  would  take 
up  a  few  of  the  genuine  issues  that  lie 
on  the  surface  of  public  thought,  and 
announce  definite  purposes  concerning 
them.  During  the  present  generation 
we  have  seen  the  mass  of  American 
voters  educated  on  many  great  questions 
by  a  thorough  public  discussion  in  po- 
litical canvasses.  Such  questions  as  man- 
hood suffrage,  specie  payments,  and  the 
honest  payment  of  the  public  debt  have 
been  debated  and  determined  during  the 
past  eighteen  years.  It  may  be  urged 
that  there  are  no  such  issues  now  pend- 
ing. Very  true ;  a  nation  cannot  al- 
ways feed  on  the  strong  meat  of  great 
controversies.  But  there  are  real  issues 
before  us,  of  practical  importance,  and 
it  is  the  duty  of  party  leaders  to  cease 
skirmishing  around  their  edges,  and  to 
meet  them  fairly. 

The  Republican  party,  as  the  party 
of  new  ideas  and  positive  doctrine  in 
the  past,  might  well  be  expected  to  lead 
the  way  in  taking  position.  In  line  with 
its  history  and  traditions  as  a  strong 
government  party,  it  might  take  up  af- 
firmatively the  following  questions  :  — 

First,  the  extension  and  defense  of 
the  civil  service  system.  This  system 
is  already  partially  established  in  the 
departments  at  Washington  and  in  the 
large  post  -  offices  and  custom  -  houses, 
where  original  appointments  are  now 
made  only  by  selection  from  candidates 
recommended  by  the  commission  as  hav- 
ing passed  a  creditable  examination. 
Civil  service  reform,  in  its  origin  and  in 
all  its  progress,  until  very  lately  was  a 
Republican  movement ;  and  although  a 
few  prominent  Democrats,  notably  Sen- 
ator Pendleton,  have  of  late  given  it 
valuable  assistance,  the  mass  of  the  De- 
mocracy is  as  hostile  to  it  to-day  as  the 
mass  of  the  Republicans  were  when 
Mr.  Jenckes,  of  Rhode  Island,  began  to 
preach  the  new  faith  in  Congress  twenty 
years  ago.  Democratic  success  in  the  ap- 
proaching presidential  election  will  im- 
peril the  fair  beginnings  of  the  reform  ; 

VOL.    Llii  NO.   315.  9 

at  least,  the  Republicans  would  be  justi- 
fied in  saying  so.  Their  platform  should 
call  for  the  broadening  and  strengthen- 
ing of  the  new  system.  The  Democrats 
could  honestly  oppose  this  demand  with 
the  Jacksonian  theory,  so  firmly  held 
by  the  great  majority  of  them,  that  "  to 
the  victors  belong  the  spoils." 

Second,  maintenance  of  the  protec- 
tive tariff  policy,  coupled  with  reform  of 
the  inequalities,  abuses,  and  outgrown 
features  of  the  present  law.  The  Re- 
publican party  is  historically  a  protec- 
tionist party,  and  the  Democratic  party 
is  a  low  tariff,  or  tariff  for  revenue  only, 
party.  If  one  would  cease  to  be  afraid 
of  Iowa  and  the  other  of  Pennsylva- 
nia, and  each  would  honestly  enunciate 
the  belief  of  the  mass  of  its  members, 
we  should  have  an  educating  discussion 
which  could  hardly  fail  to  result  in  the 
public  good. 

Third,  postal  telegraphy.  The  busi- 
ness public  is  fast  coming  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  the  telegraph  is  the  modern 
mail,  and  that  every  argument  in  favor 
of  the  post-office  being  a  government 
institution  applies  to  it.  If  it  is  of  un- 
questioned advantage  to  the  public  that 
correspondence  which  goes  in  a  leather 
bag  should  be  carried  by  the  govern- 
ment, why  should  correspondence  which 
goes  on  a  wire  be  left  to  the  mercy  of 
greedy,  speculative  corporations  ?  The 
Republjcan  party  could  consistently  take 
the  lead  in  this  question,  and  the  Dem- 
ocratic party,  as  the  opponent  of  an 
efficient  centralized  government,  could 
with  equal  consistency  assume  the  neg- 
ative of  the  proposition. 

Fourth,  a  vigorous  foreign  policy  for 
the  extension  of  our  commerce  and  our 
national  influence,  backed  by  a  strong 
navy.  The  state-department  policy  of 
the  short  Garfield  administration,  though 
bungled  in  South  America  by  incompe- 
tent agents,  was  undoubtedly  approved 
in  principle  by  the  majority  of  the  Re- 
publican party,  who  are  tired  of  the 
timid  and  selfish  attitude  of  national  iso- 


Unheard  Music. 

lation  which  our  government  customa- 
rily assumes  in  the  affairs  of  the  world. 
Men  of  broad  and  progressive  opinions 
believe  that  a  republic  of  fifty  millions 
of  people  should  make  its  ideas  and  in- 
fluence felt  all  round  the  globe,  for  the 
good  of  other  nations  as  well  as  for  the 
extension  of  its  own  commercial  rela- 
tions. On  this  question,  the  Democrats, 
who  are  conservative  as  to  public  expen- 
ditures, opposed  to  giving  the  national 
government  any  real  military  or  naval 
power,  and  very  much  disposed  to  nar- 
row their  vision  down  to  petty  matters 
lying  close  at  home,  would  naturally 
take  the  negative  side. 

Why  not  add,  or  rather  put  in  the 
first  place,  the  new  civil  rights  issue 
which  Colonel  Ingersoll  and  Frederick 
Douglass  have  recently  tried  to  raise  in 
Washington,  in  opposition  to  the  Su- 
preme Court  decision  which  declared 
Charles  Sumuer's  civil  rights  law  to  be 
unconstitutional  ?  This  question  may 
well  be  asked  by  old  Republicans.  The 
answer  is  that  the  public  mind  is  no 
longer  interested  in  the  affairs  of  the 


negro  race.  A  generation  of  controversy 
and  four  years  of  terrible  war  gave  the 
negro  in  America  freedom  and  the  bal- 
lot. Now  the  common  sentiment  is  that 
enough  has  been  done  for  him,  and  that 
he  should  make  his  own  way  upward  in 
the  social  scale.  There  is  no  demand 
for  a  constitutional  amendment  which 
will  put  the  machinery  of  federal  courts 
at  work  to  secure  him  good  seats  at  the 
theatres,  good  beds  in  hotels  and  sleep- 
ing-cars, and  the  right  to  be  shaved  in 
the  fashionable  barber-shops.  People 
are  content,  now  that  the  tension  of  sym- 
pathy with  the  enfranchised  race  has  re- 
laxed, to  leave  such  matters  to  state  leg- 

Other  questions  might  be  added,  but 
here  are  enough  for  an  active  intellect- 
ual canvass.  Such  a  canvass  would  have 
an  excellent  effect  on  the  public  mind. 
Instead  of  getting  angry  anew  over  by- 
gone quarrels  and  threshing  the  old  straw 
of  dead  controversies,  the  voters  would 
be  led  to  the  frank  discussion  of  living 
issues  which  affect  the  whole  body  of 
the  American  people. 

E.  V.  Smalley. 


MEN  say  that,  far  above  our  octaves,  pierce 

Clear  sounds  that  soar  and  clamor  at  heaven's  high  gate, 

Heard  only  of  bards  in  vision,  and  saints  that  wait 
In  instant  prayer  with  godly-purged  ears : 
This  is  that  fabled  music  of  the  spheres, 

Undreamed  of  by  the  crowd  that  early  and  late 

Lift  up  their  voice  in  joy,  grief,  hope,  or  hate, 
The  diapason  of  their  smiles  and  tears. 
The  heart's  voice,  too,  may  be  so  keen  and  high 

That  Love's  own  ears  may  watch  for  it  in  vain, 

Nor  part  the  harmonies  of  bliss  and  pain, 
Nor  hear  the  soul  beneath  a  long  kiss  sigh, 
Nor  feel  the  caught  breath's  throbbing  anthem  die 

When  closely-twined  arms  relax  again. 

Edmund    W.    Gosse. 


Illustrated  Books, 



MR.  STEDMAN,  in  the  graceful  and 
exhaustive  comment  with  which  he  has 
prefaced  this  fine  edition  of  Foe's  most 
popular  masterpiece,1  mentions  Dore's 
obvious  defects,  and  lays  stress  on  his 
equally  obvious  originality  and  power, 
as  shown  in  several  works,  to  which  he 
accords  the  highest  praise ;  but  while  he 
asserts  a  likeness  between  the  genius 
of  Poe  and  that  of  Dore,  he  seems  to 
feel  himself  on  insecure  ground  in  com- 
mending this  particular  interpretation 
of  the  one  by  the  other.  In  fact,  here 
are  two  imaginative  creations,  —  one  po- 
etic, one  artistic ;  both  are  effective,  but 
in  our  judgment  they  are  incongruous. 
The  common  element  which  Mr.  Sted- 
man  finds  in  the  working  moods  of  the 
two  men  is  practically  confined  to  their 
tendency  toward  romantic  and  fantastic 
themes  ;  in  method  they  are  very  dis- 
similar. Poe  weaves  his  spell  slowly 
and  subtly,  with  exceeding  watchfulness 
against  detection,  and  prepares,  by  scarce- 
ly noticed  increments  of  feeling  and  tri- 
fles light  as  air,  for  his  denoument ;  in 
Dore's  work,  so  to  speak,  there  is  noth- 
ing but  denoument.  The  latter  drops 
the  mask  at  once,  and  conquers,  if  at  all, 
by  force  ;  Poe  ambushes,  like  Ariel,  in 
the  invisible  air,  and  captivates  us, — 
wins,  if  at  all,  by  charm. 

Mr.  Stedman  apparently  means  to 
mark  a  difference  between  the  poem  and 
the  illustrations  by  stating  that  Dore 
"  proffers  a  series  of  variations  upon  the 
theme  as  he  conceived  it,  — '  the  enigma 


of  death  and  the  hallucination  of  an  in- 
consolable soul.'  "  It  does  not  require 
much  knowledge  of  Poe's  individuality 
or  much  literary  insight  to  perceive  that 
death  was,  in  this  composition,  merely 
the  background  that  threw  his  own  de- 
spair into  strong  relief,  and  hallucination 

1  The  Raven.  By  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE.  Illus- 
trated by  GUSTAVE  DOKK.  With  Comment  by 

only  the  transitory  shadow  of  what  he 
called  "  the  Mournful  and  Never-Ending 
Remembrance  "  of  reality.  Dore  parts 
company  with  Poe  in  a  way  against 
which  the  latter  protested  in  his  analysis 
of  this  poem,  by  pushing  the  suggested 
meaning  to  an  excess,  and  makiug  the 
under  the  upper  current  of  the  theme. 
In  the  stanzas  the  lover  is  not  an  abnor- 
mal being ;  he  is  neither  sick  in  body 
nor  unhinged  in  mind.  He  has  drifted 
from  his  book  to  his  dream,  from  the 
nepenthe  to  the  bitter-sweet  of  his  sor- 
row ;  he  is  suddenly  aroused  to  the  sub- 
stantial world  about  him,  and,  being  sen- 
sitive to  the  superstitious  promptings  of 
flickering  firelight,  rustling  curtains,  the 
impenetrable  darkness  on  which  his  door 
opens,  the  wind  without  and  the  calm 
within, —  being,  moreover,  accustomed  to 
yield  to  the  pleasure  of  such  fantasy- 
engendering  sensations,  —  he  is  wrought 
into  a  half -nonchalant,  half -expectant 
mood,  which  does  not  become  serious 
until,  by  gradual  but  conscious  surrender 
to  the  fascination  of  the  Raven's  eyes 
and  croaking  refrain,  he  falls  under  the 
myth-making  faculty  of  his  own  mind, 
which  brings  its  credence  with  itself. 
This,  at  least,  was  Poe's  apprehension 
of  what  he  himself  created. 

On  turning  to  these  illustrations,  one 
finds  the  unity  of  the  original,  its  pro- 
gressive and  golden-linked  art,  the  hu- 
mor of  the  fantastic  touch,  the  natural- 
ness of  it,  all  gone.  The  lover  is  dazed 
from  the  first ;  he  seems  without  self- 
control.  The  only  change  of  his  figure 
is  from  rigidity  to  spasm ;  the  only  vari- 
ation of  his  dream  is  from  one  spectral 
horror  to  another.  To  mark  but  a  few 
of  the  essential  differences  between  Poe's 
and  Dora's  conception,  the  lover,  instead 
of  being  absorbed  in  his  own  sorrow, 

EDMUND  C.  STEDMAN.  New  York :  Harper  & 
Brothers.  1884. 


Illustrated  Books. 


grieves  for  his  mistress'  fate ;  instead  of 
being  fascinated  by  the  Raven's  eyes, 
that  "  burned  into  my  bosom's  core,"  he 
is  lost  in  mental  abstraction  ;  instead  of 
typifying  by  his  hopeless  woe  a  fact  po- 
tentially of  universal  experience,  he  im- 
personates the  victim  of  an  exceptional 
and  malign  fate.  We  may  be  sure  that 
the  imagination  of  Poe  never  saw  that 
rare  and  radiant  maiden  clasped  in  skel- 
eton arms  upon  the  nightly  shore  whence 
flew  the  ominous  bird  ;  she  wandered 
happy  in  that  Aidenn  far  from  the  re- 
gions where  he  must  dwell ;  sure,  too, 
that  it  was  not  the  scythe-armed  death, 
throned  on  the  round  earth,  that  rose  be- 
fore him  when  he  dreamt  the  "  dreams 
no  mortal  ever  dared  to  dream  before," 
—  that  is  a  very  old  and  ordinary  ap- 
parition ;  sure  that  he  did  not  see  mere- 
ly gravestones,  funeral  wreaths,  and 
stiff  corpses  beneath  that  gloating  lamp- 
light, and  that  the  face  of  only  one 
woman  floated  in  his  vision.  But  what, 
we  wonder,  would  he  himself,  so  sensi- 
tive to  the  fortunes  of  his  work,  .have 
said  to  the  cut  in  which  the  hero  ques- 
tions the  Raven  with  the  pose  of  a 
rope-dancer ;  or  to  the  last  of  the  series, 
the  most  materialistic  of  all,  in  which 
the  lover's  soul,  lying  in  the  shadow 
of  "Mournful  and  Never -Ending  Re- 
membrance," is  represented  as  a  body 
stretched  on  the  floor,  in  the  deep  obliv- 
ion—  to  adopt  the  most  charitable  hy- 
pothesis—  of  a  paralytic  shock?  Such 
designing  is  a  degradation  of  his  finely 
elaborated  art. 

These  divergences  (and  many  others 
could  be  pointed  out)  make  Dore's  work, 
though  indebted  to  Poe's  for  its  acces- 
sories and  incidents,  a  separate  creation, 
to  be  judged  of  by  itself.  It  depicts, 
we  are  told,  "  the  enigma  of  death 
and  the  hallucination  of  an  inconsolable 
soul."  The  Sphinx  rightly  appears  in 
it ;  for  the  associations  of  that  symbol 
displace  those  of  the  head  of  Pallas 
throughout.  The  apparitions,  too,  are 
such  as  might  haunt  an  insane  mind ; 

for,  to  any  other,  superstition  becom- 
ing so  palpable  would  become  absurd. 
The  figure  which  stalks,  or  stiffens,  or 
writhes,  through  the  varying  scenes  is 
the  melodramatic  Poe  as  he  has  been  too 
often  conceived,  —  a  man  of  shattered 
nerves,  haunted  by  phantasms  of  fear, 
half  crazed  ;  the  Poe  of  Baudelaire's  rav- 
ings, of  Curwen's  fablings, — the  hero  of 
a  thousand  songs,  sonnets,  and  elegies. 
Such  a  preconception  of  Poe,  such  ro- 
mancing about  his  sorrows,  probably 
underlie  the  misrepresentation  of  which 
the  illustrations  are  guilty.  It  will  be 
strange,  indeed,  if  the  Poe  myth,  which 
substitutes  a  fallen  angel  for  a  poet, 
just  as  Dore  substitutes  delirium  for  im- 
aginative sorrow,  should  after  all  sur- 
vive as  popular  history  through  such 
books  as  this.  In  opposition,  however, 
to  the  impression  of  Poe  given  by  the 
cuts  stands  Mr.  Stedman's  remarkably 
just  criticism  and  estimate  of  this  par- 
ticular poem  among  Poe's  other  verse. 
As  he  says,  it  is  not  the  poet's  best  in  im- 
agination, in  passion,  or  in  the  lift  of  its 
melodies  ;  it  is  nevertheless  his  greatest 
because  of  the  wide  reach  of  its  power. 
The  comment  makes  a  complete  mono- 
graph of  its  subject.  Similarly,  over 
against  Dore's  frenzied  drawings  stands 
the  admirable  design  of  the  title-page, 
by  Vedder,  marked  by  that  self-restraint, 
that  solemn  suggestiveness,  that  calm 
beauty  of  the  nobler  symbolism,  in  which, 
rather  than  in  simple  supernaturalism, 
Poe  delighted.  By  such  examples  of 
the  critical  spirit  in  which  Poe  is  to  be 
approached,  and  of  the  artistic  spirit  in 
which  he  is  to  be  interpreted,  the  reader 
may  well  profit.  It  is  hardly  necessary 
to  add  that  as  a  publishers'  work  this 
volume  has  rarely  been  equaled  in  this 

The  Princess  invites  illustration  by 
the  wide  scope  it  offers  the  artist  in  its 
diversified  landscape,  its  romantic  inci- 
dents and  dramatic  situations.  He  does 
not  need  to  stray  from  his  subject,  to 
indulge  in  "  variations  of  the  theme,"  as 


Illustrated  Books. 


the  metamorphosis  of  a  poem  into  a 
picture-book  is  now  called ;  if  his  fancy 
and  invention  only  keep  pace  with  the 
poet's,  his  powers  will  be  fully  employed 
and  his  success  assured.  In  this  illus- 
trated edition  *  of  the  poem  of  which 
the  reputation  as  a  masterpiece  has  been 
steadily  rising  for  a  generation,  the  de- 
signers have  fortunately  been  content  to 
follow  the  lead  of  Tennyson.  They  have 
not  presumed  that  their  eyes  are  truer- 
sighted,  or  their  imaginations  more  mas- 
terly in  the  creative  craft,  than  his  who 
set  the  text  for  their  marginal  com- 
ment. They  have  simply  endeavored 
to  make  more  vivid  and  definite  the 
castle,  the  wood,  and  the  river  ;  the  girl- 
ish dismay  of  the  fluttered  neophytes, 
gowned  in  lilac  and  daffodilly ;  the  mien 
and  command  of  the  princess  ;  and  all  the 
beauty,  the  richness,  the  charming  atti- 
tudes, of  which  the  melodious  and  lucid 
description  almost  excuses  the  illustrator 
from  his  task.  Only  in  the  subordinate 
parts,  the  head  and  tail  pieces,  and  the 
scrolls  of  the  songs,  has  any  original  in- 
vention been  shown ;  and  even  here  good 
taste  has  not  been  at  all  trespassed  upon, 
as  is  evinced  by  the  self-restraint  which 
limited  pictorial  interpretation  of  the 
perfect  lyric,  "  Tears,  idle  tears,"  to  the 
figure  of  a  woman  striking  the  harp. 
These  numerous  ornamental  designs, 
however,  are  not  the  whole  secret  of  the 
peculiar  decorative  effect  which  the  se- 
ries as  a  whole  makes  on  the  eye  :  the 
architecture,  the  gardens,  the  exquisite- 
ness  of  the  minor  furnishings,  by  which 
the  poet  half  laughingly  marked  the  in- 
eradicable instincts  of  woman  for  all 
adornments,  help  to  lend  a  sort  of  ara- 
besque character  to  the  whole,  and  frame 
in,  as  it  were,  the  beautiful  faces  which 
look  out,  page  after  page.  This  atmos- 
phere of  simple  loveliness  which  enfolds 
the  poem  in  its  summer  haze,  the  per- 
fection of  art  which  make  the  medley  an 

l  The  Princess.  A  Medley.  By  ALFRED  TEN- 
XYSOX.  Illustrated.  Boston:  James  R.  Osgood 
&Co.  1884. 

unflawed  thing  of  beauty,  seems  to  have 
been  thoroughly  appreciated  by  those 
who  had  this  volume  in  charge,  and  to 
have  been  transfused  into  the  general 
character  of  the  cuts,  which,  in  spite  of 
considerable  individual  differences  in 
drawing  and  execution,  maintain  a  very 
high  standard  of  excellence.  The  fig- 
ure-pieces are  frequently  unusually  good, 
and  show  a  great1  gain  over  those  of  last 
year  in  The  Lady  of  the  Lake,  to  which 
this  is  a  companion  volume.  The  en- 
graving, too,  is,  as  a  rule,  careful,  com- 
pleted work,  markedly  smooth,  effective, 
and  technically  finished.  It  is  a  pity  that 
the  binding  should  have  a  cheap  look, 
and  be  stamped  with  so  inferior  a  design. 
Two  editions  of  Gray's  Elegy  afford 
new  views  of  the  long  familiar  but  al- 
ways fresh  English  landscape,  with  bits 
of  characteristic  English  accessories  from 
the  old  settle  by  the  fire  to  the  arches 
of  the  great  abbey.  In  Harry  Feun's 
edition 2  the  sketches  are  said  to  be 
made  from  the  actual  scene  of  the  poem, 
the  country  churchyard  of  Stoke  Pogis 
and  its  neighboring  uplands  and  hills. 
This  fact  may  not  in  itself  add  much  to 
the  value  of  cuts  except  in  the  truthful- 
ness and  vivacity  of  some  of  the  nature 
pieces.  Possibly,  it  indirectly  led  the 
artist  to  a  certain  boldness,  a  too  strict- 
ly literal  rendering,  in  other  portions  'of 
his  work :  for  example,  the  famous  gems 
that  the  caves  of  ocean  bear  lose  their 
lustre  if  presented  in  oyster  shells,  amid 
the  scientific  wonders  of  submarine  scen- 
ery ;  to  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland 
lawn  does  not  imply  walking  into  that 
luminary  ;  and  surely  the  incident  of  the 
village  Hampden's  resisting  the  little  ty- 
rant of  his  fields  did  not  take  place  in 
boyhood,  as  it  is  here  represented.  Such 
defects  of  conception  limit  the  value  of 
the  designs  ;  the  peculiar  way  in  which 
the  verses  of  the  poem  are  broken  up  by 
the  irregular  shape  of  the  cuts  may  also 

2  Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Churchyard.  By 
THOMAS  (ii:.\Y.  Illustrated  by  HAUKY  FEXX. 
Boston :  Huberts  Brothers.  1884. 


Illustrated  Books. 

seem  a  blemish,  and  the  gravestone  cov- 
er is  positively  in  bad  taste ;  but  there 
are  several  very  pretty  sketches  and 
some  fine  engraving  in  this  gift-book, 
which  will  cert.-iinly  give  pleasure.  In 
the  other,  which  is  called  the  Artists' 
Edition,1  the  same  injury  to  the  beauty 
of  the  page  by  cuts  shaped  like  a  stair- 
way, and  to  the  integrity  of  the  poem 
by  splitting  up  the  lines  irregularly,  is 
noticeable,  but  in  a  much  less  degree. 
The  illustrations  are  larger,  and  the 
whole  volume  is  much  more  ambitious. 
There  can,  however,  be  but  little  varia- 
tion in  the  essential  conceptions  of  so 
plain  and  narrowly  defined  a  subject. 
The  quiet  inclosure  of  the  dead  set  in 
continual  antithesis  to  the  broad  expanse 
of  what  by  contrast  seems  a  more  vital 
nature,  the  remembrance  of  the  busy 
labors  and  the  home  comforts  which 
made  up  the  short  and  simple  annals  of 
their  lives,  and  the  scanty  outlined  his- 
tory of  an  unknown  youth  who  lies 
there  must  suggest  to  all  minds  nearly 
the  same  visual  images,  however  ingen- 
iously the  details  be  treated.  Thus  in 
this,  as  in  the  edition  already  noticed, 
one  opens  at  random,  and  finds  the  ab- 
bey arch,  the  noontide  under  the  trees, 
the  yews  and  elms,  and  all  the  common 
symbolism  of  spade,  scythe,  rank  grass, 
and  the  like.  The  designs  have  a  breadth 
and  softness  quite  in  harmony  with  the 
general  tenor  of  the  stanzas,  and  the  en- 
graving is,  in  most  cases,  up  to  the  aver- 
age of  American  work,  but  seldom  of 
the  best. 

Jean  Ingelow's  ballad,  The  High  Tide 
on  the  Coast  of  Lincolnshire,  has  long 
been  such  a  favorite  with  our  people 
that  it  would  be  difficult  to  suggest  a 
modern  poem  with  a  better  right  to  the 
sort  of  illustration  which,  by  an  admi- 
rable custom,  is  given  to  brief  popular 
pieces.  Partly  because  it  is  a  ballad  of 

1  An  Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Churchyard. 
By  THOMAS  GRAY.     The  Artists'  Edition.    Phil- 
adelphia :  J.  B.  Lippincott  &  Co.     1883. 

2  The  High  Tide  on  the  Coast  of  Lincolnshire, 

old  Boston,  but  chiefly  because  it  is  so 
tender,  musical,  and  pitiful,  this  poem 
deserves  to  be  held  in  credit,  and  its 
memory  to  be  revived,  and  its  value  en- 
hanced, if  that  be  possible,  by  illustra- 
tion. In  the  edition  under  review 2  the 
landscape  is  given,  —  the  town  with  its 
shipping  and  tower,  the  old  sea  wall 
with  its  flights  of  mews,  the  broad  and 
reedy  Lindis,  the  beacon  flaming  over 
the  waste ;  the  principal  incidents  are 
pictured,  —  the  mayor  climbing  the  bel- 
fry, the  old  mother  spinning,  Elizabeth 
trolling  her  milking  song,  the  sweep  of 
the  mighty  Eygre,  the  watch  on  the  roof, 
and  the  death  disclosed  at  the  door  in 
the  morning  ebb.  In  all  this  there  was 
opportunity  for  effective  and  beautiful 
cuts,  as  indeed  many  of  these  designs 
would  be  were  they  not  so  often  veiled 
with  that  unintelligible  mistiness  which 
still  injures  some  of  the  modern  engrav- 
ing, or  else  allowed  to  melt  away  into 
an  obscurity  that  seems  meant  merely 
to  conceal  the  drawing.  Notwithstand- 
ing these  blemishes,  —  for  such  they 
must  be  regarded,  —  the  book  is  to  be 
commended  for  no  inconsiderable  por- 
tion of  its  illustrations,  which  help  the 
text  quite  perceptibly  in  vigor  and  pic- 

Although  Mr.  Scott  has  touched  a 
nearly  threadbare  theme,8  and  has  failed 
to  accomplish  the  miracle  of  throwing 
new  light  upon  it,  his  illustrated  account 
of  the  Renaissance  of  art  in  Italy  is  not 
without  a  certain  raison  d'etre.  This 
lies  in  the  singularly  clear  and  admi- 
rable method  which  he  has  adopted  in 
arranging  his  material.  The  work  is 
divided  into  four  books :  the  first  treat- 
ing of  the  rise  of  Italian  art ;  the  second, 
third,  and  fourth,  of  its  progress,  cul- 
mination, and  decline.  Mr.  Scott  gives 
a  concise  and  untechnical  history  of  the 
architecture,  sculpture,  and  painting  of 

1571.  By  JEAN  INGELOW.  Boston  :  Roberts 
Brothers.  1883. 

8  The  Renaissance  of  Art  in  Italy.  An  Illus- 
trated History.  By  LEADER  SCOTT.  New  York: 
Scribner  £  Welford.  1883. 


The  Annexation  of  Heaven. 


that  rich  period,  which  extended  from 
the  middle  of  the  fourteenth  century  to 
the  end  of  the  sixteenth.  With  the  liter- 
ary phase  of  the  Italian  Renaissance  he 
deals  only  incidentally,  in  the  course  of 
the  chapters  into  which  his  four  books 
are  subdivided.  Not  the  least  interest- 
ing of  these  chapters  is  that  devoted  to 
the  minor  arts  of  tapestry,  gem-carving, 

metal-work,  and  interior  decoration. 
The  author  addresses  himself,  as  will 
be  seen,  to  the  general  reader,  and  is 
deserving  of  his  consideration.  The 
volume  is  generously  illustrated  with 
wood-engravings,  reproductions  of  fa- 
mous canvasses  and  marbles,  portraits, 
landscapes,  etc.,  many  of  which  are 
choice  examples  of  the  art. 


IT  has  been  a  favorite  generalization 
of  philosophers  that  superstition  has 
been  crowded  out  of  the  world  by  the 
increase  of  light  in  what  had  been  dark 
places ;  that  as  the  ancients  peopled  the 
Cimmerian  darkness  with  all  manner  of 
shapeless  spirits,  and  these  troublesome 
demons  were  driven  farther  and  farther 
away  as  the  known  boundaries  of  the 
earth  expanded,  and  that  as  our  own 
ancestors  in  New  England  were  troubled 
by  devils  and  witches,  the  woods  being 
full  of  them,  but  were  dispossessed  of 
the  belief  as  the  Indians  were  driven 
away  and  the  woods  cut  down,  so,  in 
general,  that  the  penetration  of  myste- 
rious corners  of  the  globe  has  not  only 
rid  mankind  of  one-eyed  men,  men  with 
their  heads  under  their  arms,  men  with 
tails,  and  similar  candidates  for  side- 
shows, but  has  freed  the  imagination 
from  dire  shapes  that  people  the  air  and 
prefer  midnight  to  noonday.  When  the 
last  recess  of  Africa  has  been  explored, 
when  the  valleys  of  the  Himalayas  have 
all  been  traversed,  when  Australia  has 
been  covered  with  a  survey  and  the 
iirctic  and  antarctic  snows  have  yielded 
their  last  superficial  secret,  then,  it  is 
claimed,  the  human  mind  will  have 
known  the  last  footfall  of  ghost  or  spec- 
tre, and  a  universal  light  will  have 
made  impossible  a  lurking  place  for  any 

We  are  so  near  this  consummation  of 
mundane  knowledge  that  we  naturally 
look  for  signs  of  the  accompanying  spir- 
itual deliverance.  Was  it  in  anticipa- 
tion of  their  final  expulsion  that  the 
world  was  visited,  forty  years  ago  or  so, 
by  a  swarm  of  spirits,  knocking  at  all 
doors  for  admission  ?  And,  having  found 
a  welcome,  do  these  visitors  show  a  re- 
luctance to  leave  the  fireside  ?  The 
stacks  in  our  libraries  preserve  for  the 
curious  the  records  of  human  trembling, 
when  men  were  huddled  together  in  the 
centre  of  the  world,  within  the  borders 
of  an  encircling  ocean  ;  has  the  place 
yet  been  filled  which  is  to  contain  the 
record  of  human  curiosity  and  admira- 
tion when  Chinese,  Japanese,  and  Co- 
rean  visitors  ceased  to  draw  crowds,  but 
unseen  travelers  from  the  undiscovered 
country  were  hospitably  entertained  ? 

The  question  is  the  rhetorical  form 
into  which  such  speculation  naturally 
falls.  We  have  no  mind  to  go  farther 
than  a  question  just  now,  or  to  consider 
at  all  that  bulk  of  printed  matter  which 
concerns  a  commerce  between  the  next 
world  and  this.  Libraries  may  con- 
tain it,  but  literature  knows  it  not.  It 
is  only  when  books  which  claim  the  pro- 
portions of  art  come  before  us  that  we 
stop  to  read  them,  and  reflect  upon  their 
consequence  to  men  and  women,  or  their 
influence  upon  literary  form  and  spirit. 


The  Annexation  of  Heaven. 

£  January, 

When  such  books  come  not  single  spies, 
but  in  battalions,  we  ask  what  impulse 
sent  them  forth  to  visit  us. 

Three  or  four  recent  books  are  possi- 
bly a  vanguard,  and  one  may  be  taken 
as  in  some  sort  the  leader  of  the  file. 
A  Little  Pilgrim  1  has  been  long  enough 
before  the  public  to  have  acted  as  an  in- 
centive to  writers  disposed  to  like  flight 
of  imagination.  It  recites,  in  delicately 
chosen  phraseology,  the  awakening  of 
a  soul  after  the  sleep  of  death,  and  the 
first  experience  which  was  met  by  one 
who  on  earth  had  led  a  life  of  service 
and  of  heavenly  spirit.  Mrs.  Oliphant, 
if  we  may  use  a  name  commonly  attrib- 
uted to  the  author  of  this  little  book, 
has  taken  the  most  favorable  conditions 
for  picturing  the  transition  of  life  from 
this  world  to  the  next,  and  by  a  suppo- 
sition of  a  heavenly  life  under  earthly 
conditions  has  made  it  easier  for  the 
imagination  to  pass  to  an  earthly  life 
under  heavenly  conditions.  What,  she 
seems  to  ask  herself,  would  be  the  emo- 
tion of  a  soul,  always  occupied  with  the 
good  of  others,  when  it  was  transferred 
to  a  sphere  where  this  unselfish  life  is 
the  normal  and  usual  order  ?  The  lit- 
tle Pilgrim  therefore  receives  the  no- 
tice of  a  change  of  outward  nature  with 
no  sense  of  a  shock,  but  with  a  tranquil- 
lity which  springs  from  a  previous  ad- 
justment of  her  spirit  to  this  environ- 
ment. The  sensations  corresponding  to 
physical  sensations  are  like  the  old,  ex- 
cept that  they  are  more  subtle  and  re- 
fined. Light,  sound,  touch,  fragrance, 
are  still  translatable  into  human  speech, 
but  the  words  used  intimate  a  nicer 
shade  of  sense,  and,  in  a  single  word, 
are  gentler  in  their  manifestation. 

"  By  and  by,  as  she  came  to  full  pos- 
session of  her  waking  senses,  it  appeared 
to  her  that  there  was  some  change  in 
the  atmosphere,  in  the  scene.  There  be- 
gan to  steal  into  the  air  about  her  the 
soft  dawn  as  of  a  summer  morning,  the 

1  A  Little  Pilgrim.  Boston:  Roberts  Brothers. 

lovely  blueness  of  the  first  opening  of 
daylight  before  the  sun.  It  could  not  be 
the  light  of  the  moon,  which  she  had 
seen  before  she  went  to  bed;  and  all 
was  so  still  that  it  could  not  be  the 
bustling,  wintry  day,  which  comes  -at 
that  time  of  the  year  late,  to  find  the 
world  awake  before  it.  This  was  dif- 
ferent; it  was  like  the  summer  dawn,  a 
soft  suffusion  of  light,  growing  every 
moment.  And  by  and  by  it  occurred  to 
her  that  she  was  not  in  the  little  room 
where  she  had  lain  down.  There  were 
no  dim  walls  or  roof ;  her  little  pictures 
were  all  gone,  the  curtains  at  her  win- 
dow. The  discovery  gave  her  no  un- 
easiness in  that  delightful  calm.  She 
lay  still  to  think  of  it  all,  to  wonder,  yet 
undisturbed.  It  half  amused  her  that 
these  things  should  be  changed,  but  did 
not  rouse  her  yet  with  any  shock  of  al- 
teration. The  light  grew  fuller  and  full- 
er round,  growing  into  day,  clearing  her 
eyes  from  the  sweet  mist  of  the  first 
waking.  Then  she  raised  herself  upon 
her  arm.  She  was  not  in  her  room  ;  she 
was  in  no  scene  she  knew.  Indeed,  it 
was  scarcely  a  scene  at  all ;  nothing  but 
light,  so  soft  and  lovely  that  it  soothed 
and  caressed  her  eyes.  She  thought  all 
at  once  of  a  summer  morning  when  she 
was  a  child ;  when  she  had  awoke  in  the 
deep  night  which  yet  was  day,  early,  — 
so  early  that  the  birds  were  scarcely 
astir,  —  and  had  risen  up  with  a  deli- 
cious sense  of  daring  and  of  being  all 
alone  in  the  mystery  of  the  sunrise,  in 
the  unawakened  world  which  lay  at  her 
feet  to  be  explored,  as  if  she  were  Eve 
just  entering  upon  Eden.  It  was  curi- 
ous how  all  those  childish  sensations, 
long  forgotten,  came  back  to  her,  as  she 
found  herself  so  unexpectedly  out  of  her 
sleep  in  the  open  air  and  light.  In  the 
recollection  of  that  lovely  hour,  with  a 
smile  at  herself,  so  different  as  she  now 
knew  herself  to  be,  she  was  moved  to 
rise  and  look  a  little  more  closely  about 
her,  and  see  where  she  was." 

The  new  experience  is  tested  by  the 


The  Annexation  of  Heaven. 


familiar  measures,  and  always  the  same 
external  likeness  is  found,  but  with  a 
deeper  interior  significance.  She  finds 
herself  dressed  in  a  robe  she  does  not 
know,  but  it  falls  so  pleasantly  and 
softly  about  her,  fulfilling  thus  all  nec- 
essary conditions  of  dress,  that  she 
abandons  further  thought  of  it ;  she 
moves  forward,  "  walking  in  a  soft  rap- 
ture over  the  delicious  turf."  She  sees 
people  coming  and  going,  but  suffers  no 
disturbance  from  them.  She  questions 
about  them  in  her  mind,  and  hears  an 
answer  before  she  has  asked  a  question. 
They  have  died,  and  the  word  suggests 
a  similar  question  of  herself. 

"  Then  she  said,  '  Perhaps  I  have 
died,  too,'  with  a  gentle  laugh  to  herself 
at  the  absurdity  of  the  thought. 

"  '  Yes,'  said  the  other  voice,  echoing 
that  gentle  laugh  of  hers,  '  you  have 
died,  too.' " 

This  word  brings  the  little  Pilgrim 
out  of  her  confusion  by  the  sharp  decis- 
ion of  a  clear  fact ;  and  thus,  with  a  lit- 
tle agitation  at  the  birth  of  a  conscious- 
ness within  her  of  another  life,  she 
passes  into  a  full  and  contented  posses- 
sion of  the  abundance  of  that  life. 

The  transition  thus  made,  and  her 
heroine  fairly  within  the  bounds  —  or 
shall  we  say  the  limitless  expanse  ?  —  of 
another  world,  Mrs.  Oliphant's  task  is 
to  resolve  for  her  some  of  the  problems 
which  the  new  life  would  naturally  sug- 
gest. There  is  no  attempt  at  establish- 
ing the  physical  conditions  of  being ; 
rather,  body,  light,  air,  are  assumed,  but 
everything  is  subordinated  to  the  ex- 
pansion of  personality.  Just  as  we  go 
on  our  way  without  perpetually  feeling 
of  our  pulse  or  counting  our  breath,  so, 
Mrs.  Oliphant  delicately  hints,  her  little 
Pilgrim  was  occupied  by  so  much  that 
gave  exercise  to  her  spiritual  faculties 
as  to  make  any  mention  of  the  corporeal 
functions  incongruous.  She  was  here  ; 
she  was  there ;  she  had  strength  ;  she 
had  rest  after  weariness  :  what  need  to 
inquire  closely  into  the  operations  of 

her  physical  nature,  when  it  fulfilled  all 
needed  offices  in  leaving  her  personality 
free  to  act  in  response  to  its  highest 
demands  ? 

There  is,  then,  as  the  central  figure  in 
this  little  drama,  a  human  person,  who 
has  lost  no  attribute  of  personality,  but 
has  gained  in  greater  freedom  and  har- 
mony. As  on  earth  the  little  Pilgrim 
goes  hither  and  thither  in  a  service  of 
love,  so  she  fulfills  the  same  service 
above,  under  conditions  which  magnify 
her  power  and  increase  her  content.  A 
few  typical  instances  are  taken  of  per- 
sons coming  into  the  other  world  in  a 
half -blind,  bewildered,  or  lame  state, 
who  are  at  once  the  proper  subjects  for 
her  gracious  attention.  It  is  to  be  noted 
that  the  operations  of  the  drama  are 
wholly  in  that  other  world  ;  there  is  no 
passage  back  and  forth  between  this 
world  and  that.  Only  the  memory  re- 
mains to  reproduce  the  past  scenes,  and 
lift  them,  in  the  light  of  a  fuller  knowl- 
edge, to  a  truer  place. 

Thus  the  little  Pilgrim  finds  herself 
in  a  society.  It  is  a  society  of  souls, 
having  relations  to  one  another,  and 
each  expressing  its  own  personality 
through  natural  media.  As  the  little 
Pilgrim  is  a  sort  of  heavenly  nurse,  so 
the  painter  paints,  the  poet  rhymes,  and 
the  singer  sings.  It  is,  to  tell  the  truth, 
a  somewhat  artistic  circle  into  which  the 
reader  is  introduced.  One  shocks  one's 
self  by  asking  what  the  business  man  is 
to  do  ;  and  he  may  be  told,  perhaps,  that 
in  the  spiritual  world  the  circumstance 
of  earth  is  of  little  account,  and  that  the 
honest  book-keeper  or  salesman  is  not 
even  on  earth  dependent  upon  his  ledger 
or  his  merchandise  for  the  satisfaction 
of  his  soul.  Very  true ;  yet  are  not  the 
canvas,  the  musical  instrument,  and  pen, 
ink,  and  paper  equally  unessential  ? 

The  fact  is  that  the  moment  Mrs. 
Oliphant  hints,  even  gently,  at  manual 
occupation  a  host  of  material  questions 
obtrude  themselves,  and  it  is  for  this 
reason  that  we  think  her  book  becomes 


The  Annexation  of  Heaven. 


gradually  involved  in  perplexity,  even 
while  she  is  enlarging  the  scope  of  the 
little  Pilgrim's  experience.  She  hints 
at  a  home,  but  takes  the  reader  no 
farther  than  a  vine-covered  porch  ;  de- 
tail of  circumstance,  once  entered  upon, 
brings  a  troop  of  difficulties  with  it,  and 
detail  of  spiritual  experience  it  is  hard 
to  give  without  some  corresponding 
physical  fact. 

The  one  fact  to  which  the  book  holds, 
and  upon  which  it  relies  for  the  explica- 
tion of  all  others,  is  the  love  of  God, 
and  the  warmth  of  this  belief  imparts  a 
certain  glow  and  generous  color  to  the 
entire  poem  ;  for  poem  the  book  is,  —  an 
imaginative  work,  with  a  distinct  attempt 
at  keeping  all  the  parts  in  subjection  to 
the  central  idea.  It  is  as  if  Mrs.  Oli- 
phant  had  selected  a  scheme  of  color, 
and  took  pains  that  her  convention  should 
not  be  disturbed.  She  has  been  reason- 
ably successful  in  this,  and  has  produced 
a  work  which,  apart  from  its  very  tender 
illustration  of  a  profound  theme,  may 
be  viewed  as  a  work  of  literary  art. 

It  is  as  such  that  we  are  primarily 
considering  these  books  before  us,  and 
therefore  we  must  confine  ourselves  to 
this  view  of  Miss  Phelps's  Beyond  the 
Gates.1  If  Mrs.  Oliphant's  book  was  a 
poem,  this  may  be  described  as  belong- 
ing to  the  class  of  literature  which  has 
had  many  excellent  representatives,  the 
travel-novel.  In  one  aspect,  it  is  a  rec- 
ord of  personal  observation  in  a  new 
country  ;  in  another,  it  is  the  develop- 
ment of  a  personality  through  the  ex- 
perience of  life. 

The  story  is  in  autobiographic  form, 
and  its  heroine  is  a  woman  who  has  led 
a  life  of  vigorous  activity  and  of  suffer- 
ing. She  was  a  nurse  in  the  hospitals 
during  the  war ;  she  concerned  herself 
about  the  lives  of  factoi-y  girls  ;  she  was 
the  mainstay  of  an  aged  mother,  a  hearty 
younger  brother  who  was  at  college,  and 
a  younger  sister.  Her  father,  a  clergy- 

1  Beyond  the  Gates.  By  ELIZABETH  STUART 
PHBLPS.  Boston:  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.  1883. 

man,  had  been  dead  many  years.  In  her 
own  more  intimate  experience,  Mary,  the 
heroine,  had  early  loved  a  man  who  had 
married  another,  and  she  had  averted 
her  eyes,  and  so  far  as  she  could  her 
thoughts,  from  him.  She  had  not,  as 
she  says,  an  ecstatic  temperament.  Life 
she  took  soberly  and  with  energy,  and 
the  higher  things  of  life  interested  her 
in  a  rational  way.  She  was  not  a  dev- 
otee, but  an  honest  believer  in  the  truths 
of  the  Christian  religion.  "  I  believed," 
she  says,  "  in  God  and  immortality,  and 
in  the  history  of  Jesus  Christ.  I  re- 
spected and  practiced  prayer,  but  chiefly 
decided  what  I  ought  to  do  next  minute. 
I  loved  life  and  lived  it.  I  neither 
feared  death  nor  thought  much  about  it." 

To  this  healthy-minded  woman,  un- 
troubled by  nervous  disorders  or  a  too 
active  imagination,  came  a  fever,  and 
after  the  fever  a  stupor,  in  which  she 
lay  for  thirty  hours  ;  but  while  in  this 
stupor,  when  apparently  almost  lifeless, 
her  spirit  experienced  a  life  of  years 
spent  beyond  the  confines  of  the  body, 
and  within  the  borders,  for  the  most 
part,  of  heaven.  The  thirty  hours  served 
as  the  worldly  time  of  a  drama  which 
involved  elaborate  processes  and  the 
lapse  of  years  in  the  lives  of  those  left 
on  earth. 

Mary's  first  apprehension  in  this  new 
state  is  of  the  presence  of  her  father. 
He  conducts  her  by  easy  stages,  adapted 
to  her  childish  condition  in  a  new  sphere, 
away  from  her  earthly  associations,  un- 
til they  are  by  themselves  upon  a  moor, 
when  he  bids  her  rise ;  and  with  an  ef- 
fort she  is  conscious  of  a  passage  from 
the  round  globe  into  space.  "  I  use  the 
words  '  ascension  '  and  '  arising,'  "  she 
says,  "  in  the  superficial  sense  of  earthly 
imagery,"  and  from  time  to  time  she  ex- 
plains how  impossible  it  is  to  convey  an 
accurate  notion  of  what  she  sees  and 
hears  by  means  of  ordinary  language. 
Now  that  she  has  left  the  earth  behind 
she  is  by  herself  for  a  while,  becoming 
wonted  to  the  new  situation,  and  adjust- 


The  Annexation  of  Heaven. 


ing  her  confused  recollection  of  former 
notions  of  heaven  with  the  actuality. 
Her  father  comes  to  her  aid,  and  helps 
her  struggling  thought  to  take  adequate 
shape.  Soon  she  begins  to  apprehend 
the  life  about  her  :  she  hears  birds  and 
the  musical  brook  engaged  in  a  harmoni- 
ous Te  Deum  ;  she  slowly  discovers  that 
what  we  should  call  nature  is  in  this 
heavenly  place,  sentient  and  worship- 
ing. Then  there  comes  upon  her  a  re- 
vulsion of  feeling,  as  she  remembers  the 
loss  which  has  fallen  upon  those  on 
earth,  and  she  prays  to  return  to  them. 
This  prayer  is  not  granted,  but  in  place 
comes  a  new  conception  of  obedience  to 
a  supreme  will,  which  she  learns  through 
her  father. 

"  '  It  is  not  always  permitted,'  he  said 
gravely.  '  We  cannot  return  when  we 
would.  We  go  upon  these  errands  when 
it  is  Willed.  I  will  go  and  learn  what 
the  Will  may  be  for  you  touching  this 
matter.  Stay  here  and  wait  for  me.' 

"  Before  I  could  speak  he  had  depart- 
ed swiftly,  with  the  great  and  glad  mo- 
tion of  those  who  go  upon  some  busi- 
ness in  this  happy  place  ;  as  if  he  him- 
self, at  least,  obeyed  unseen  directions, 
and  obeyed  them  with  his  whole  being. 
To  me,  so  lately  from  a  lower  life,  and 
still  so  choked  with  its  errors,  this  lov- 
ing obedience  of  the  soul  to  a  great  cen- 
tral Force  which  I  felt  on  every  hand, 
but  comprehended  not  as  yet,  affected 
me  like  the  discovery  of  a  truth  in  sci- 
ence. It  was  as  if  I  had  found  a  new 
law  of  gravitation,  to  be  mastered  only 
by  infinite  attention." 

The  lesson  once  learned,  she  is  per- 
mitted to  revisit  the  earth,  where  she 
finds  her  cold  body  laid  out  for  burial ; 
comforts  her  mother,  brother,  and  sister ; 
attends  her  own  funeral,  with  the  ar- 
rangements of  which  she  is  quite  well 
pleased ;  goes  to  the  grave  with  the  body, 
and  remains  after  the  sexton  has  hurried 
away.  In  the  vigil  which  she  keeps 
she  becomes  possessed  of  a  full  belief  in 
the  resurrection  of  the  body,  and  returns 

to  heaven.  At  first  she  meets  no  one  ; 
then  she  is  aware  of  a  stranger  by  her, 
and  the  walk  to  Emmaus  is  repeated, 
except  that  the  Presence  is  not  revealed 
by  itself,  but  by  the  disclosure  of  a 
young  girl  whom  she  afterwards  meets, 
and  who  proves  to  be  one  wihom  Mary, 
when  on  earth,  had  tried,  but  with  a  con- 
sciousness of  failure,  to  redeem  from  an 
abandoned  life.  This  girl,  nevertheless, 
had  found  her  way  to  heaven  through 
a  love  for  Mary,  which  Mary  herself 
had  not  suspected,  and  now,  being  an 
older  resident,  acts  as  her  guide.  They 
come  to  water,  beyond  which  lies  a  city  ; 
and  Mary,  fearing  to  walk  upon  the 
water,  is  drawn  across  in  a  nautilus 
shell  by  her  more  experienced  and  trust- 
ing companion. 

Into  this  city  they  come,  with  its 
clean,  well-ordered  streets,  in  which  are 
no  old,  or  infirm,  or  beggarly  people,  but 
where  are  museums,  libraries,  art-gal- 
leries, and  a  hospital  for  hearts  ;  and  at 
last  approach  a  small  and  quiet  house, 
"  built  of  curiously  inlaid  woods,  that  re- 
minded me  of  Sorrento  work  as  a  great 
achievement  may  remind  one  of  a  first 
and  faint  suggestion."  The  dog  on  the 
threshold  rises,  as  they  come  forward, 
and  meets  them  cordially.  Her  compan- 
ion now  bids  her  enter,  but  herself  with- 
draws, and  Mary  enters  the  house,  see- 
ing no  one,  but  hearing  footsteps,  until 
her  father  again  appears.  It  is  one  of 
the  heavenly  mansions,  which  he  has 
been  getting  in  readiness  for  his  wife ; 
and  in  this  revelation  of  heaven  a  home 
becomes  a  great  and  noble  fact. 

Centred  in  this  home,  she  now  takes 
up  an  active  life,  in  which  the  parts  cor- 
respond, though  with  infinite  distance, 
with  occupations  below.  Instead  of  work- 
ing at  Ollendorf,  she  undertakes  to  ac- 
quire the  Universal  Language.  Instead 
of  a  symphony  concert  in  the  Boston 
Music  Hall,  with  the  bronze  statue  of 
Beethoven  on  the  stage,  she  attends  a 
great  festival,  at  which  Beethoven  him- 
self conducts  the  orchestra  and  chorus 


Annexation  of  Heaven. 


in  the  rendition  of  an  oratorio  which  he 
has  composed ;  and  even  after  the  in- 
struments and  voices  have  ceased  the 
leaves  on  the  trees  repeat  the  music. 
She  attends  a  Symphony  of  Colors, 
among  the  managers  of  which  is  Ra- 
phael, and  even,  it  is  rumored,  Leo- 
nardo. The  spectators  sit  in  the  centre 
of  a  great  white  globe,  upon  the  sur- 
face of  which  appear  in  succession  colors 
and  harmonies  of  colors.  She  goes  to  a 
meeting  in  the  open  air,  at  which  she 
hears  St.  John  the  Divine. 

Her  mother  now  comes  and  joins  the 
home,  bringing  word  of  the  fortunes  of 
those  below.  There  arises  now  in  Mary 
a  great  thirst  for  knowledge,  which  shall 
embrace  all  the  unanswered  questions  of 
her  earthly  life,  and  shall  be  had  by  ac- 
cess to  the  spirits  of  .the  mighty  who 
have  died.  She  even  begins  to  wonder 
if  she  may  not  visit  a  world  which  the 
creations  of  human  imagination  have 
peopled  with  their  forms,  and  come  to 
know  Don  Quixote,  Dinah  Morris,  Ju- 
liet, Uncle  Tom,  Colonel  Newcome,  Sum 
Weller,  and  other  famous  heroes  and 

While  in  the  midst  of  these  specula- 
tions there  rushes  over  her  the  remem- 
brance of  her  lost  love,  and  then,  as  the 
last  drop  in  her  experience,  he  comes. 
At  first  she  fears  to  love  him,  but  he 
informs  her  that  his  wife  has  not  yet 
died,  and  has  married  again,  and  he  is 
free.  With  this  consummation  of  her 
desires  she  ends  her  heavenly  vision, 
for  her  stupor  now  ceases  ;  she  returns 
slowly  to  earthly  consciousness  as  one 
wakes  from  a  dream,  and  again  is  on  the 
cold  earth,  but  with  heaven  in  her  heart. 

In  a  rapid  outline  of  such  a  book, 
many  facts,  more  or  less  necessary  to 
the  development  of  the  story,  must  be 
omitted,  yet  we  think  we  have  not  missed 
the  argument  of  the  work.  There  is,  as 
the  reader  will  have  seen,  a  change  in 
the  character  of  the  narrator.  From  be- 
ing a  healthy-minded,  reasonable,  cheer- 
ful, and  sane  woman,  busy  in  the  lives 

of  others  and  honestly  helpful,  she  is 
transformed  by  the  exigencies  of  the 
story  into  a  person  of  ecstatic  tempera- 
ment, ejaculatory,  even  at  times  hyster- 
ical. In  this  respect  there  is  not  the 
consistency  which  was  to  be  observed  in 
A  Little  Pilgrim.  Heaven  has  wrought 
a  great  change  ;  and  though  Mary  comes 
into  the  fuller  apprehension  of  truths 
which  she  had  before  dimly  perceived, 
one  cannot  help  thinking  that  the  ex- 
pansion of  character  is  not  in  the  direc- 
tion of  a  large,,  holy  life. 

In  another  respect  the  book  differs 
from  A  Little  Pilgrim.  The  field  of 
action  is  no  longer  exclusively  another 
world,  but  there  is  a  movement  back 
and  forth  ;  and  indeed,  after  the  charac- 
ter is  fairly  at  home  in  the  celestial  city, 
heaven  itself  becomes  in  its  detail  a  sub- 
limation of  earth.  Is  it  to  be  said  that 
this  is  the  case  with  the  revelation  of 
St.  John  the  Divine,  who  describes  walla 
and  gates  and  pavements  ?  But  the  book 
of  Revelation  is  fundamentally  an  ethical 
book,  and  this  is  fundamentally  an  aes- 
thetical  one,  having  to  do  chiefly  with 
sensations.  In  the  approach  to  the  ce- 
lestial city,  Miss  Phelps  incorporates 
many  fine  conceptions.  Her  expansion 
of  the  sentiment  of  the  soul  lingering 
after  death  is  rich  and  suggestive,  and 
there  are  single  sentences  which  have  a 
penetrating  power,  as  where  she  says, 
"  When  1  felt  the  spiritual  flesh,  when 
I  used  the  strange  muscle,  when  I  heard 
the  new  heart-beat  of  my  heavenly  iden- 
tity, I  remembered  certain  words,  with 
a  sting  of  mortification  that  I  had  known 
them  all  my  life,  and  paid  so  cool  a  heed 
to  them  :  '  There  is  a  terrestrial  body, 
and  there  is  a  celestial  body.'  The  glory 
of  the  terrestrial  was  one.  Behold,  the 
glory  of  the  celestial  was  another.  St. 
Paul  had  set  this  tremendous  assertion 
revolving  in  the  sky  of  the  human  mind, 
like  a  star  which  we  had  not  brought 
into  our  astronomy." 

Yet  the  heavenly  city  itself  is  a  new 
earth,  and  we  think  that  Miss  Phelps's 


The  Annexation  of  Heaven. 


conception  should  be  classed  rather  with 
the  Utopias  of  imagination  than  with 
the  heavens.  The  vague  background  of 
landscape  and  architecture,  which  in  A 
Little  Pilgrim  seemed  to  give  projection 
to  the  figures  passing  in  front,  becomes 
in  Beyond  the  Gates  a  very  positive 
foreground,  and  one  scarcely  sees  divine 
personages  except  in  the  distance.  We 
are  given  very  marked  space  in  which 
to  limit  our  conception  of  eternity. 

The  fiction  of  a  dream  answers  Miss 
Phelps's  purpose  in  enabling  her  to  ac- 
count for  the  adventures  of  her  heroine. 
Mr.  Baker,1  who  also  adopts  the  autobi- 
ographic form,  does  not  concern  himself 
with  any  such  slight  concession  to  prob- 
ability, but  boldly  carries  his  character 
from  earth  to  heaven,  and  narrates  his 
earliest  experience  there.  He  saves  him- 
self by  calling  his  story  a  parable,  as  the 
story  of  pives  and  Lazarus  is  a  parable ; 
and  uses  the  first  person  in  telling  it,  in 
order,  we  suppose,  to  gain  directness, 
and  because  it  is  a  revelation  of  personal 
consciousness.  In  this  case  a  hero,  and 
not  a  heroine,  is  the  chief  actor,  and  the 
manner  of  his  passage  into  the  other 
world  has  significance.  He  is  a  physi- 
cian, who  saves  the  life  of  a  ragamuffin 
from  the  attack  of  a  mad  dog,  but  re- 
ceives in  the  encounter  a  wound,  which 
is  healed  for  the  time,  but,  according  to 
the  law  of  the  disease,  is  liable  to  a  fatal 
issue  even  so  late  as  a  year  after.  Not 
only  he,  but  his  family,  his  friends  and 
neighbors,  are  aware  of  the  terrible  fate 
which  overhangs  him.  At  first  he  re- 
ceives the  homage  of  all  men  ;  then  his 
heroism  becomes  an  old  story,  and  those 
who  admired  now  shrug  their  shoulders ; 
but  the  man  and  his  wife  never  lose 
the  sense  of  the  ever-present  shadow. 
So,  finally,  when  the  end  comes,  and  the 
heroic  physician  perceives  that  he  is  to 
undergo  the  terrible  sensation  of  a  con- 
sciousness in  which  he  will  lose  his  per- 

1  A  Blessed  Ghost.  A  Parable  of  the  Better 
Country.  By  WILLIAM  M.  BAKER.  Boston: 
Roberts  Brothers.  1884.  [Advance  Sheets.] 

sonal  dignity  and  become  a  brute,  a  vile 
animal,  he  braces  himself  to  meet  the 
ordeal,  provides  against  all  contingen- 
cies, and  then  enters  the  dark  valley 
through  this  most  hideous  gate. 

We  do  not  know,  nor  greatly  care, 
how  accurate  is  Mr.  Baker's  pathology 
of  hydrophobia ;  the  scene  portrayed  by 
him  is  so  offensive  that  most  will  hurry 
over  it,  merely  glancing  at  it  to  take 
note  of  the  intensity  with  which  a  strong 
man  feels  a  degradation  of  nature  which 
has  come  through  strictly  physical 
means.  The  contrast  is  in  the  calm 
which  succeeds  the  violence,  the  perfect 
naturalness  of  the  other  world  into 
which  he  passes.  "  If  there  is  any  way," 
he  says,  "  in  which  I  could  convey  the 
idea  of  the  absence  of  anything  to  as- 
tonish, to  thrill,  to  move  one  a  grain  out 
of  the  even  tenor  of  waking  life,  I 
would  use  it  to  make  plain  the  fact  that 
never  in  my  life  had  I  felt  more  quietly 
and  completely  at  home  with  myself  and 
everything  than  I  did  in  that  waking 
moment.  So  when  I  was  with  my  Lord, 
it  was  exactly  as  when  Peter  and  the 
rest  were  with  him  upon  the  sea-shore, 
the  grateful  odor  of  the  broiling  fish 
upon  the  air." 

As  in  Beyond  the  Gates,  so  here  the 
hero  lingers  beside  the  dead  body  which 
he  has  left,  and  considers  the  matter  of 
comforting  the  mourners,  but  is  also 
conscious  of  a  Will  which  holds  his  own 
in  perfect  subjection.  "  A  goodly  part 
of  the  pleasure  to  me  in  this  was  due 
to  the  perpetual  sense  I  had  of  divine 
control ;  but  it  was  merely  the  control 
of  rhythm  upon  music.  I  had  long 
ago  resolved,  for  instance,  that  if  I 
could,  after  death,  I  would  surely  give 
my  wife  some  token  of  my  continued 
existence  and  nearness  to  her.  Now  I 
had  none  of  that  desire,  though  I  knew 
I  could  have  done  so  had  I  wished. 
Two  things  withheld  me.  First,  such 
fullness  of  life  streamed  through  me  that 
I  could  not  conceive  how  any  one  could 
doubt  that  I  was  still  living.  Besides, 


The  Annexation  of  Heaven. 


I  knew  it  was  not  the  will  of  God  I 
should  show  myself  to  her  in  any  way ; 
and  how  can  I  express  the  compelling 
influence  upon  me  of  that  adorable  will  ? 
To  differ  from  it  was  simply  inconceiv- 
able. Even  to  desire  to  differ  from  it 
was  as  if  a  wren  perched  upon  a  clock 
tower  should  think  to  alter  with  claw 
and  beak  the  motion  of  the  hands  and 
works  there.  It  was  as  if  a  baby  should 
fancy  arresting  the  revolution  of  the 
earth  upon  its  axis  by  planting  infantile 
feet  upon  and  bracing  itself  against  it. 
Yes :  the  will  of  the  Father  was  the 
shoreless  breadth  and  beauty  and  un- 
fathomed  current  of  things,  the  Gulf 
Stream  of  all  movement ;  and  it  was  in 
my  going  with  it  lay  to  me  the  entire 
power,  as  it  did  the  pleasure  of  all 
movement,  of  myself,  and  of  every- 
thing. It  was  this  irresistible  setting  in 
of  the  ocean  of  existence  in  one  way 
and  my  entire  surrender  to  it  which  gives 
me,  as  it  does  all  in  heaven,  my  unob- 
structed power  to  go  and  to  come,  to  do 
and  to  be." 

The  revelation  of  heaven  attempted 
by  Mr.  Baker's  parable  scarcely  goes 
beyond  the  exchange  of  thought  upon 
the  new  life  which  his  hero  holds  with 
friends,  new  and  old,  whom  he  discovers 
about  him.  He  also  attends  a  concert, 
and  he  expands  the  conception  of  many 
mansions,  but  the  reader  is  not  granted  a 
minute  inspection  of  place  and  scenery. 
The  parable  is  forgotten  ;  as  soon  as  the 
heavenly  company  is  fairly  reached,  the 
book  becomes  a  discourse  upon  a  life 
which  has  been  freed  from  human  limi- 
tations, and  has  entered  upon  unbounded 
possibilities.  As  in  A  Little  Pilgrim,  the 
absorbing  idea  is  of  personality  retained, 
enlarged,  and  made  glorious  through  the 
redemption  made  by  a  Person.  To  the 
other  conceptions  Mr.  Baker  has  added 
that  of  sacrifice  as  a  way  of  approach. 

Do  these  books,  then,  give  us  reason 
to  think  that  we  are  to  see  a  new  do- 
main of  literature,  —  that  heaven  is  to  be 
annexed  to  earth  in  literary  art  ?  It  is 

doubtless  true  that  when  a  great  theme 
absorbs  the  minds  of  men  the  literature 
and  art  of  the  day  will  in  some  sort  bear 
witness  to  it ;  and  speculations  on  a  fu- 
ture state  are  likely  to  affect  the  imag- 
ination of  poets  and  painters ;  even  nov- 
elists may  be  thus  affected.  It  is  equal- 
ly true  that  art,  whether  in  painting  or 
in  letters,  has  laws  which  are  supreme, 
and  that  in  any  portraiture  of  heaven 
the  essential  condition  of  success  must 
be  in  obedience  to  these  laws.  Nothing 
could  be  more  suicidal  than  a  lawless 
picture  of  heaven.  The  keynote  struck 
with  different  degrees  of  intelligence  by 
the  three  writers  whom  we  have  cited 
is  the  union  of  divine  and  human  per- 
sonality. They  perceive  that  this  makes 
heaven,  but  in  striking  their  chords  they 
for  the  most  part  forget  this,  —  Mrs.  Oli- 
phant  least  of  all,  —  and  wander  off  into 
themes  which  are  not  variations,  but  sep- 

There  was  a  time  when  art  in  paint- 
ing essayed  a  similar  result.  No  one 
can  look  at  the  Adoration  of  the  Lamb 
in  Ghent,  by  the  brothers  Van  Eyck, 
without  seeing  that  art,  in  taking  its 
theme  from  the  revelation  of  heaven, 
was  not  afflicted  by  an  anxious  curiosity, 
but  chose  the  centre  of  heaven  as  the 
centre  of  its  representation  of  heaven, 
and  wrought  with  all  the  power  which 
had  been  given  to  the  executing  hand. 
The  change  of  interpretation  from  that 
day  to  this  does  not  alter  the  relation 
of  art,  whether  literary  or  pictorial,  to 
the  subject.  If  there  be  a  profounder 
conception  of  the  divine  harmony  than 
that  which  satisfied  the  Van  Eycks,  if 
the  eye  of  the  modern  believer  is  no 
longer  contented  with  the  symbol  of  the 
lamb,  but  is  eager  to  look  beyond  sym- 
bols to  a  reality  which  knows  no  surer 
expression  than  a  Person,  then  it  be- 
comes the  business,  whether  of  art  or  lit- 
erature, to  be  as  truthful  to  current  be- 
lief as  the  Van  Eycks  were  to  the  belief 
of  their  day,  and  at  least  as  reverent. 

It  would  be  idle  to  inquire  at  the  end 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


of  a  paper  why  art  has  relinquished 
these  themes,  or  to  pursue  the  specula- 
tioii  whether  some  other  form  of  art,  as 
music,  may  not  hold  them  in  reserve.  It 
is  enough  to  say  that  if  literature  is  ever 
to  engage  in  the  occupation  of  the  other 
world  it  must  first  believe  in  it,  and  then 
use  its  imagination  to  expand  the  known 
properties.  If  it  merely  hauls  into 
boundless  space  the  baggage  of  this 
world,  it  is  pretty  sure  to  lose  its  way,  and 
reach  no  definite  end.  For  forty  years 
or  so  we  have  had  by  our  doors  a  mass 
of  printed  matter,  which  is  witness  to 
the  struggle  of  human  minds  after  a 
spacial  and  temporal  representation  of 
the  life  after  death.  All  this  while  there 

has  been  a  rapid  movement  in  theology 
and  philosophy,  which  tends  to  destroy 
the  delusive  notion  that  eternity  is  mere- 
ly a  prolongation  of  time.  These  books 
which  we  have  cited  have  caught  a 
breath  from  the  higher  philosophy,  and 
it  is  that  which  gives  them  any  value. 
Nevertheless,  they  are  still  shackled  by 
the  materialistic  conceptions  of  heaven, 
the  pagan  notion  of  elysian  fields  in  the 
future.  If  the  religious  imagination  is 
ever  to  produce  a  work  having  heaven 
for  its  theme,  and  yet  obedient  to  the 
gospel  of  hope,  it  will  not  make  it  its 
first  business  to  secure  a  suitable  other 
world  in  which  to  set  up  its  figures  of 


IT  goes  without  saying  that  in  this 
country  we  do  not  know  much  about 
feudal  castles.  Whatever  wondrous  rec- 
onciliations between  opposed  styles  in 
architecture  we  may  have  to  show,  a 
traveler  would  journey  hundreds  upon 
hundreds  of  miles  without  once  seeing 
towers  and  battlements,  or  so  much  as 
a  moated  grange.  It  was  therefore 
a  great  surprise  when,  lately  passing 
through  a  woodland  near  my  home,  I 
came  upon  what  completely  satisfied  my 
notion  of  an  ancient  manor  house.  The 
inmates,  if  there  were  inmates,  I  fancied 
were  taking  a  hundred  years'  sleep,  so 
mouldy  and  solitary  was  the  air  of  the 
place.  With  a  boldness  I  would  now 
call  foolhardiness,  I  determined  to  ex- 
plore the  gloomy  mansion.  When  at 
last  I  stood  in  a  spacious  chamber,  well 
at  the  top  of  the  house,  it  seemed  some- 
what strange  that  I  could  not  remember 
by  what  steps  I  had  arrived  there.  But 
my  attention  was  soon  directed  to  the 
great  array  of  old  armor  which  hung  on 
the  walls.  I  thought  of  the  stir  that 

such  a  trouvaille  would  cause  in  the 
State  Historical  Society  (hitherto  com- 
pelled to  take  up  with  Indian  and  Mound 
Builder  relics).  I  felt  a  thrill  of  satis- 
faction that  my  name,  as  the  finder, 
would  be  connected  with  this  valuable 
antiquarian  collection.  In  the  midst  of 
'these  reflections,  I  was  startled  by  the 
sound  of  footsteps  in  some  adjoining 
chamber.  Instantly,  fear  laid  hold  on 
me  ;  on  cautious  tiptoe,  I  hurried  out 
through  the  nearest  door,  and  was  re- 
joiced to  find  not  so  much  as  a  ghost  to 
dispute  the  passage.  There  was  a  flight 
of  stairs,  down  which  I  hastened  with  a 
kind  of  winged  speed  (for  I  still  heard 
footsteps).  Following  the  turn  in  the 
landing,  I  came  to  another  flight  of 
stairs,  and  descended  this  to  atfother ; 
and  so  on,  down,  down,  until  a  landing, 
or  hall-way,  was  reached  that  had  but 
one  door,  and  a  window  opposite.  Think- 
ing to  make  my  way  out  at  last,  I 
opened  the  door.  Complete  darkness. 
A  slight,  soughing  draught  from  I  knew 
not  whence  brought  a  thick  veil  of  cob- 


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webs  across  my  face.  I  dared  not  take 
refuge  in  this  mysterious  limbo ;  yet 
something  must  be  done,  for  the  steps 
of  the  pursuer  were  heard  louder  and 
nearer.  Quick  as  thought,  I  ran  to  the 
end  of  the  hall,  and  leaped  through  the 
window,  —  not  to  the  ground,  however, 
but  into  another  chamber !  Then  I 
—  but  for  artistic  reasons  I  prefer  not 
to  recount  the  manner  of  my  escape. 
There  's  but  one  fault  to  be  found  with 
the  charming  tales  of  Morphean  adven- 
ture told  in  The  Spectator :  the  author 
seems  to  think  it  needful  he  should  re- 
verse his  spells,  and  invite  the  reader  to 
witness  the  dissolution  of  the  "  baseless 
fabric."  Why  should  he  take  such 
pains,  when  the  reader  does  not  ask  to 
be  disenchanted? 

—  Steam  and  gunpowder  have  often 
proved  the  most  eloquent  apostles  of 
civilization,  but  the  impressiveness  of 
their  arguments  was  perhaps  never  more 
strikingly  illustrated  than  at  the  little 
railway  station  of  Gallegos,  in  Northern 
Mexico.  When  the  first  passenger  train 
crossed  the  viaduct,  and  the  wizards  of 
the  North  had  covered  the  festive  table 
with  the  dainties  of  all  zones,  the  gov- 
ernor of  Durango  was  not  the  most  dis- 
tinguished visitor  ;  for  among  the  specta- 
tors on  the  platform  the  natives  were 
surprised  to  recognize  the  Cabo  Ventu- 
ra, the  senior  chief  of  a  hill-tribe,  which 
had  never  formally  recognized  the  sov- 
ereignty of  the  Mexican  republic.  The 
Cabo,  indeed,  considered  himself  the 
lawful  ruler  of  the  entire  Comarca,  and 
preserved  a  document  in  which  the 
Virey  Gonzales,  en  nombre  del  Rey,  — 
in  the  name  of  the  king,  —  appointed 
him  "  protector  of  all  the  loyal  tribes  of 
Castra  and  Sierra  Mocha."  His  diploma 
had  an  archaeological  value,  and  several 
amateurs  had  made  him  a  liberal  offer ; 
but  the  old  chieftain  would  as  soon  have 
sold  his  scalp.  His  soul  lived  in  the 
past.  All  the  evils  of  the  age  he  as- 
cribed to  the  demerits  of  the  traitors 
who  had  raised  the  banner  of  revolt 

against  the  lawful  king ;  and  as  for  the 
countrymen  of  Mr.  Gould,  the  intrusive 
Yangueses,  his  vocabulary  hardly  ap- 
proached the  measure  of  his  contempt 
when  he  called  them  herexes  y  combus- 
teros,  7—  heretics  and  humbugs. 

"  But  it  cannot  be  denied,"  Yakoob 
Khan  wrote  to  his  father,  "  that  it  has 
pleased  Allah  to  endow  those  sinners 
with  a  good  deal  of  brains  ; "  and  the 
voice  of  rumor  gradually  forced  the 
Cabo  to  a  similar  conclusion,  till  he  re- 
solved to  come  and  see  for  himself. 

When  the  screech  of  the  iron  Behe- 
moth at  last  resounded  at  the  lower  end 
of  the  valley,  and  the  train  swept  visibly 
around  the  curve  of  the  river-gap,  the 
natives  set  up  a  yell  that  waked  the 
mountain  echoes  ;  mothers  snatched  up 
their  babies  ;  men  and  boys  waved  their 
hats  and  jumped  to  and  fro,  in  a  state 
of  the  wildest  excitement.  Only  the 
old  Cabo  stood  stock-still.  His  gaze 
was  riveted  upon  the  phenomenon  that 
came  thundering  up  the  valley  ;  his  keen 
eye  enabled  him  to  estimate  the  rate 
of  speed,  the  trend  of  the  up-grade,  the 
breadth,  the  length,  the  height,  of  the 
cars.  When  the  train  approached  the 
station  the  crowd  surged  back  in  affright, 
but  the  Cabo  stood  his  ground,  and  as 
soon  as  the  cars  stopped  he  stepped 
down  upon  the  track.  He  examined 
the  wheels,  tapped  the  axles,  and  tried 
to  move  the  lever  ;  and  when  the  engine 
backed  up  for  water,  he  closely  watched 
the  process  of  locomotion,  and  walked 
to  the  end  of  the  last  car  to  ascertain 
the  length  of  the  train.  He  then  re- 
turned to  the  platform,  and  sat  down, 
covering  his  face  with  both  hands. 

Two  hours  later  the  governor  of  Du- 
rango found  him  in  still  the  same  posi- 

"  Hallo,  Cabo  !  "  he  called  out,  "  how 
do  you  like  this  ?  What  do  you  think 
now  of  America  Nueva  ?  "  ("  New 
America,"  a  collective  term  for  the  re- 
publics of  the  American  continent.) 

The  chieftain  looked  up.  "  Sabe  J)ios, 


—  the  gods  know,  Senor  Commandante, 
but /know  thia  much:  with  old  Amer- 
ica it 's  all  up." 

"  Is  it  ?  Well,  look  here :  would  you 
now  like  to  sell  that  old  diploma?  I 
still  offer  you  the  same  price." 

The  Cabo  put  his  hand  in  his  bosom, 
drew  forth  a  leather-shrouded  old  parch- 
ment, and  handed  it  to  his  interlocutor. 
"  Vengale,  Usted,  —  it 's  worthless,  and 
you  are  welcome  to  keep  it."  Never- 
theless he  connived,  when  the  governor 
slipped  a  gold  piece  into  the  pouch  and 
put  it  upon  his  knees,  minus  the  docu- 

But  just  before  the  train  started,  the 
governor  heard  his  name  called,  and 
stepped  out  upon  the  platform  of  the 
palace-car,  when  he  saw  the  old  chief- 
tain coming  up  the  track.  -  "  I  owe  you 
a  debt,  Senor,"  said  he ;  "  y  le  pagare 
en  consejo,  —  I  want  to  pay  it  off  in 
good  advice  :  Beware  of  those  strangers." 

"  What  strangers  ?  " 

"  The  caballeros  who  invented  this 

"  Is  that  what  you  came  to  tell  me  ?  " 
laughed  the  governor,  as  the  train 

The  old  Cabo  waved  his  hand  in  a 
military  salute.  "  Estamos  ajustado : 
Senor  Commandante,  this  squares  our 

—  A  few  words  upon  the  leading 
characteristic  of  the  modern  stage,  at 
least  in  England,  and  in  America  so  far 
as  our  theatre  takes  its  cue  from  Lon- 
don. I  will  begin  by  saying  that  Mr. 
Lawrence  Barrett,  above  all  other  Amer- 
ican players,  deserves  the  gratitude  of 
our  poets  and  playwrights  for  his  plucky, 
steadfast  promotion  of  their  dramatic 
work.  How  charming  and  full  of  en- 
couragement to  all  concerned  is  his  suc- 
cessful revival  of  Mr.  Boker's  Francesca 
da  Rimini,  after  its  merits  had  been 
treated  with  indifference  for  twenty-five 
years !  That  highly  poetic  drama  has 
recently  ended  a  triumphal  run  of  nine 
weeks  in  New  York,  at  the  close  of 

VOL.  LIII. — NO.  315.  10 

The  Contributors'   Club. 


which  Mr.  Barrett  made  a  neat  address. 
From  his  remarks,  however,  —  and  this 
brings  me  to  the  point,  —  it  is  plain  that 
we  have  no  "  actors ; "  the  actor  is  a 
memory  of  the  past,  his  place  having 
been  taken  by  the  "  artist."  Through- 
out the  stage  speech  in  question,  there 
is  but  .one  mention  of  an  actor,  —  Ed- 
win Booth.  On  the  contrary,  brief  as 
it  was,  the  word  "artist"  is  used  no 
less  than  seven  times,  and  applied  to 
Mr.  Barrett  himself,  to  Mr.  Wallack, 
to  Miss  Anderson,  to  Mr.  Irving,  and  to 
the  "  artists  "  of  the  Lyceum  Company. 
Possibly  Mr.  Barrett  makes  a  distinc- 
tion, judging  that  the  terms  "actor" 
and  "  artist "  justly  indicate  the  relative 
qualities  of  Mr.  Booth  and  Mr.  Irving. 
If  so,  there  are  not  a  few  who  will  agree 
with  him.  For  Booth  certainly  is  an 
actor  by  birth  and  purpose ;  and  Irving 
seems  to  me  an  artist,  first  of  all.  No 
independent  observer,  visiting  the  Lyce- 
um in  London,  and  familiar  with  Mr. 
Irving's  rise  and  influence,  can  think 
otherwise.  It  is  due  to  his  art  instincts, 
supplemented  by  incrediole  tact  and  so- 
cial diplomacy,  that  he  has  brought  all 
England  to  accept  his  supremacy.  Never 
before  was  there  a  player  or  manager, 
if  we  except  Charles  Kean,  with  so  apt 
a  feeling  for  the  picturesque ;  and  Keau, 
as  a  st;ige  artist,  was  years  in  advance 
of  the  predestined  time.  Mr.  Irving  al- 
lied himself,  with  quick  perception,  to 
the  art  revival  which  followed  the  pre- 
Raphaelite  movement,  and  has  made  his 
stage  its  mirror,  and  himself  its  embodi- 
ment. His  most  striking  impersonations 
are  addressed  to  the  eye,  and  "  made 
up"  from  famous  pictures.  The  ab- 
surdities of  his  love-making  in  the  early 
acts  of  The  Lady  of  Lyons  are  forgot- 
ten near  the  close,  where  he  returns 
from  the  war,  in  dress  and  visage  the 
living  counterpart  of  Buonaparte  in 
Egypt.  In  Hamlet,  Irving  and  Miss 
Terry  compose  a  tableau  vivant  of  Mil- 
lais's  Huguenot  Lovers  ;  in  Charles  the 
First  we  have  the  very  portrait  by  Van 


The  Contributors'   Club. 


Dyke.  Then  his  beautiful  and  elabo- 
rate mountings  of  Romeo  and  Juliet,  — 
in  fact,  of  all  the  plays  in  his  repertory! 
Paul  Veronese,  reborn  and  turned  stage 
manager,  could  not  excel  them.  Yes, 
Mr.  Irving  is  without  doubt  an  artist, 
and  a  great  one,  and  no  setting  can  be 
too  rich  and  truthful  for  an  imaginative 
play.  For  all  this  I  am  duly  grateful, 
yet  wonder  how  far  he  could  rely  upon 
his  histrionic  powers  alone  ;  and  I  am 
disposed  to  reserve  my  warmest  plaudits 
for  actors  like  Salvini,  Jefferson,  Booth, 
whose  passion  and  genius  make  exacting 
audiences  forget  the  mean  accessories  of 
the  shabbiest  stage. 

—  There  has  always  been  something 
of  a  puzzle  to  me  in  the  diversity  that 
subsists  between  the  two  forms  or  modes 
of  working  of  the  imagination  ;  between 
imagination  active  and  creative  and  im- 
agination receptive  and  passive,  —  or 
comparatively  passive,  for  of  course 
the  mind  is  never,  strictly  speaking,  at 
rest.  The  distinction  is  real,  and  not 
nominal,  merely.  Among  the  people 
we  talk  with,  the  authors  we  read,  we 
notice  in  how  different  measure  they 
have  received  from  nature  the  precious 
gift.  But  it  is  not  a  matter  simply  of 
the  more  or  less  of  imagination  ;  there  is 
the  manifest  difference  of  kind  or  qual- 
ity, also.  It  appears  that  one  cannot 
have  the  higher,  creative  faculty,  at 
least  to  any  large  degree,  without  pos- 
sessing the  inferior  faculty,  which  acts 
upon  images  presented  to  it  from  with- 
out, taking  up  and  appropriating  con- 
ceptions it  has  not  originated.  On  the 
other  hand,  one  can  very  well  have  this 
receptive  imagination  without  a  particle 
of  the  creative.  I  have  a  friend  who  is 
singularly  destitute  of  the  latter,  while 
more  than  commonly  endowed  with  sus- 
ceptibility to  imaginative  impressions ; 
and  there  seems  something  strange  in 
the  same  person  being  at  once  so  rich 
and  so  poor  in  this  sort  of  intellectual 
treasure.  Though  able  to  appreciate  and 
genuinely  enjoy  poetry  and  fiction,  and 

quick  in  response  to  the  thousand  appeals 
which  both  nature  and  life  make  to  the 
imagination,  she  is  incapable  of  produc- 
ing anything  in  the  line  of  imaginative 
art.  And  there  are  others  far  less  imag- 
inatively impressionable, —  some,  in  fact, 
who  are  obtuse,  where  she  is  readily 
responsive,  —  who  nevertheless  can  -do 
what  she  cannot,  whose  imagination 
works  inventively  where  hers  is  power- 
less. I  do  not  mean  to  imply  that  they 
are  necessarily  the  enviable  .persons,  and 
she  the  one  to  be  compassionated  ;  per- 
haps it  is  rather  the  contrary,  and  the 
power  to  enjoy  widely  and  deeply  the 
things  of  the  imagination  is  to  be  craved 
more  than  the  ability  to  produce  imag- 
inative works,  unless  they  are  to  be  of 
the  highest.  I  do  not  know  if  my 
friend's  mental  constitution  is  an  unus- 
ual one,  but  I  have  observed  this  same 
limitation  of  power  in  regard  to  other 
qualities,  intellectual  or  quasi-intellect- 
ual. I  really  know  of  no  one  with  a 
keener  sense  for,  and  stronger  delight 
in,  humor  and  wit,  yet  never  by  any 
chance  was  she  known  to  say  a  witty 
thing,  or  to  suggest  a  humorous  one. 

Will  any  psychologist  kindly  furnish 
me  with  an  explanatiou  of  her  case 
which  is  a  real  explanation,  and  not 
merely  a  change  of  verbal  statement  of 
it.  I  confess  there  is  something  unin- 
telligible to  me  in  the  way  a  mental 
force  can  work  strongly  in  one  direction, 
and  be  shut  off  from  action  in  another 
near  and  parallel  one. 

—  I  lately  heard  a  young  woman  say 
with  considerable  indignation,  as  a  time- 
honored  but  time-dishonoring  guest  left 
her  house,  that  she  should  teach  her 
boys  one  thing :  that  they  never  must 
make  an  evening  visit  lasting  more  than 
half  an  hour.  I  protested,  remembering 
certain  acquaintances  whom  I  am  only 
too  glad  to  have  come  early  and  stay 
late ;  but  when  we  had  talked  longer 
about  this  important  subject,  I  was 
forced  to  admit  that  this  devoted  mother 
was  likely  to  do  her  young  sons  a  kind- 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


ness.  I  should  even  like  to  have  the 
making  and  euforciug  of  a  law  that  half 
an  hour  should  be  all  that  an  uninvited 
guest  could  be  allowed  to  accept  or  de- 
mand. Too  much  time  is  little  better 
than  wasted  in  trying  to  fulfill  fancied 
obligations  to  our  neighbors.  To  be 
sure,  there  are  old  and  dear  friends  who 
come  now  and  then,  at  our  well-known 
desire  and  entreaty,  to  spend  an  evening, 
when  there  is  time  for  a  long  talk  and  a 
leisurely  comparing  of  interests  and  ex- 
periences and  opinions.  But  those  per- 
sons who  are  really  welcome  visitors, 
and  who  have  it  in  their  power  to  give 
pleasure,  are  not  likely  to  weary  us  by 
coming  too  often ;  for  they  usually  can 
spare  little  time  from  the  employments 
and  purposes  which  have  made  them 
what  they  are.  There  are  other  friends 
and  acquaintances,  however,  who  are  to 
be  separately  considered.  We  are  bound 
to  each  other  by  various  ties  of  affection 
and  association,  of  kinship  and  common 
interest ;  we  belong  to  the  same  set  in 
society,  or  go  to  the  same  church ;  in 
short,  we  have  relations,  either  of  a  pub- 
lic or  private  social  character,  with  a 
certain  number  of  persons.  We  are 
supposed  to  recognize  each  other's  exist- 
ence by  paying  a  short  visit  at  suitable 
intervals.  We  pay  the  compliment  of 
making  a  call  out  of  courtesy,  and  be- 
cause of  our  interest  and  our  desire  to 
let  every  other  duty  and  pleasure  go  by, 
while  we  spend  a  little  time  in  each  oth- 
er's society.  Now  the  system  of  social 
visiting  (which  was  lately  complained  of 
in  these  columns,  under  another  aspect) 
means  either  something  or  nothing  to 
us.  Either  it  has  its  use  and  reason, 
and  is  a  welcome  thing,  or  else  it  is  a 
hindrance  and  a  mockery.  The  formal 
call  should  certainly  be  short ;  and  it  is 
apt  to  be  short  in  the  daytime,  when 
everybody  is  in  more  or  less  of  a  hurry, 
and  is  obliged  to  let  the  fact  be  known  ; 
but  it  is  in  the  evening  that  most  suffer- 
ing is  inflicted.  Unless  there  is  some 
permission  or  invitation  given,  it  seems 

a  very  daring  thing  to  assume  that  a 
family  would  desire  to  relinquish  all  its 
plans  for  an  evening's  rest  or  enjoyment 
in  order  to  spend  the  time  in  entertain- 
ing one  person. 

It  is  not  always  wise  to  make  a  rule 
that  no  one  is  to  be  admitted  during  the 
evening :  on  the  contrary,  a  guest  may 
be  heartily  welcomed,  if  it  is  known  at 
the  outset  that  he  has  come  in  for  a  short 
time  ;  that  he  is  cheerful,  and  friendly, 
and  amusing,  and,  in  short,  worth  lis- 
tening to  and  entertaining.  But  the 
illy-concealed  gloom  that  settles  down 
upon  one  tired  face  after  another,  while 
the  clock  strikes  the  succeeding  half 
hours,  and  each  member  of  the  family 
in  turn  comes  despairingly  to  the  rescue 
of  the  faltering  conversation,  is  a  de- 
plorable thing.  We  are  responsible  for 
the  state  of  our  consciences,  and  if  we 
have  allowed  them  to  become  so  dull 
that  they  do  not  give  us  the  unmistaka- 
ble warning  to  go  away,  then  we  must 
not  fret  if  we  are  warded  off,  dreaded, 
and  called  bores.  I  was  delighted  to 
hear  some  one  say,  not  long  ago,  that 
she  did  no*  think  she  had  any  right  to 
spend  two  hours  at  a  time  with  any 
friend,  without  a  special  invitation,  since 
it  could  not  fail  to  be  an  interruption  ; 
and  it  gave  joy  to  my  heart  that  one 
person  so  respected  the  rights  of  others. 
Picture  some  one,  who  has  assured  him- 
self that  he  is  not  likely  to  find  amuse- 
ment under  his  own  roof,  setting  forth 
in  search  of  a  more  agreeable  place  in 
which  to  spend  the  evening.  He  hunts 
from  door  to  door  ;  finding  that  one  fami- 
ly has  honestly  paid  its  money  and  gone 
to  a  play,  another  is  dining  out,  the  third 
enjoying  its  invited  guests,  while  at  the 
fourth  he  is  met  at  sight  with  the  in- 
formation that  the  ladies  are  engaged. 
Perhaps  at  the  fifth  he  gains  an  en- 
trance. One  person  rises  hurriedly  from 
the  sofa ;  another  puts  down  her  book 
with  a  sigh ;  another  comes  reluctantly 
from  a  desk,  where  some  notes  and  let- 
ters must  be  written  at  some  time  during 


Books  of  the  Month. 


that  evening,  and  the  stricken  group  re- 
signs itself  to  the  demands  of  friendship 
and  society.  The  master  of  the  house 
returns  presently  to  his  avocation,  with 
a  brave  excuse.  It  may  be  eight  o'clock 
when  the  guest  comes  ;  it  may  be  nine, 
and  he  may  be  kind-hearted  and  unob- 
jectionable ;  he  may  even  be  profitable 
and  entertaining;  but  he  stays  until  af- 
ter ten;  everybody  thinks  that  he  never 
means  to  go,  and  inwardly  regrets  his 
presence.  For  half  an  hour  he  could 
have  felt  sure  of  welcome  ;  in  that  time 
he  certainly  could  have  said  and  done 
all  that  was  worth  doing,  and  have  been 
asked  to  stay  longer,  or  to  come  again 
soon,  when  he  took  leave.  There  is  no 
greater  compliment  and  tribute  to  one's 

integrity  than  to  be  fairly  entreated  to 
sit  down  for  ten  minutes  longer.  Of 
course  we  treat  each  other  civilly  in  an 
evening  visit,  but  it  is  a  great  deal  bet- 
ter to  come  away  too  soon  than  to  stay 
too  late.  In  a  busy,  overworked  and 
overhurried  city  life,  nothing  is  so  pre- 
cious as  a  quiet  evening  to  one's  self, 
or  even  a,  part  of  one.  We  all  wish 
—  or  ought  to  wish  —  to  make  life 
pleasant  for  ourselves  and  other  peo- 
ple, and  are  ready  to  be  generous  even 
with  our  time ;  but  no  one  likes  to  be 
plundered  and  defrauded.  It  is  the 
underlying  principle  of  our  neighbor's 
action  and  conduct  towards  us  which 
makes  us  thankful  or  resentful  when  he 
comes  to  visit  us. 


Holiday  Books.  Bed-Letter  Days  Abroad,  by 
John  L.  Stoddard  (Osgood),  is  ostensibly  a  book 
of  travels,  occupied  with  Spain,  Ober-Ainmergau, 
St.  Petersburg,  and  Moscow,  but.  the  pictorial 
portion  of  the  book  is  its  excuse  for  being.  There 
are  many  pleasing  pictures,  with  text  to  accom- 
mny  them.  The  text  is  arranged  in  order  and 
reads  straight  forward ;  nevertheless,  the  writer  is 
a  speaker  addressing  an  audience  and  pointing  to 
his  views.  The  device  of  assuming  a  companion- 
ship in  travel,  common  enough  in  books,  becomes 
here  an  irresistible  suggestion  of  a  showman.  — 
Good  Night  and  Good  Morning,  words  by  Lord 
Houghton,  illuminations  and  etchings  by  Walter 
Severn  (Roberts  Bros.),  is  eight  cards  temporarily 
strung  on  blue  silk,  in  a  manner  which  exas- 
perates the  masculine  mind,  and  makes  him  wish 
to  relegate  the  thing  to  the  work-basket.  —  Lead, 
Kindly  Light,  is  Cardinal  Newman's  famous 
hymn,  illustrated  by  St.  John  Harper  and  G. 
R.  Halm  (Roberts  Bros.)  with  figures  and  dec- 
orative work,  all  obviously  symbolic.  There  is, 
it  may  be  said,  no  unity  about  the  book,  for  the 
figures  do  not  represent  any  single  personality, 
but  make  a  diverse  and  scattered  commentary  on 
the  hymn. — The  Bryant  Calendar  (Appleton) 
follows  the  present  vogue  of  a  large  card  with  a 
block  gummed  upon  it,  the  literature  of  which 
cannot  be  known  in  full  till  the  end  of  the  year. 
The  art  part  of  the  calendar  is  rather  common- 
place, and  the  pink  of  the  scroll  and  the  rose  in- 
troduces an  unpleasant  accent  into  what  other- 
wise might  be  a  somewhat  pleasing  combination  of 

colors.  —  Fair  Words  about  Fair  Women,  gathered 
from  the  poets  by  O.  B.  Bunce  (Appleton).  is  an 
anthology  made  with  good  judgment,  and  ar- 
ranged in  a  series  of  hypothetical  evenings  of  a 
club.  Wisely  enough,  the  editor  does  not  force 
his  little  fiction  upon  the  reader.  The  tablets 
and  other  decorations,  by  How,  if  we  read  the 
name  correctly,  are  graceful  and  in  harmony.  — 
Pictorial  Architecture  of  the  British  Isles,  by  the 
Rev.  H.  H.  Bishop,  is  an  oblong  book  of  coarse 
wood-cuts,  arranged  to  show  the  changes  which 
have  taken  place  from  the  earliest  days  of  Britain, 
with  a  running  commentary  of  text.  It  is  pub- 
lished by  the  Society  for  Promoting  Christian 
Knowledge,  of  which  the  American  agents  are 
E.  &  J.  B.  Young  &  Co.,  New  York.  —  The 
Hymns  of  Martin  Luther,  set  to  their  original 
melodies,  with  an  English  version,  edited  by 
Leonard  Woolsey  Bacon,  assisted  by  Nathan  H. 
Allen  (Soribners),  is  an  admirable  souvenir  of  the 
four  hundredth  anniversary  of  Luther's  birth.  It 
contains  Luther's  prefaces,  and  gives  the  English 
reader  the  best  results  of  German  scholarship  in 
a  clear  and  agreeable  form.  —  A  Little  Girl  among 
the  Old  Masters,  with  introduction  and  comment 
by  W.  D.  Ilowells  (Osgood),  is  surely  one  of  the 
most  delightful  glimpses  of  a  rare  childhood. 
The  little  girl,  sojourning  in  Italy,  found  her  best 
friends  among  the  early  Florentine  painters,  and 
thought  their  thoughts  over  again  in  her  sympa- 
thetic mind,  reproducing  them  in  her  own  child- 
ish dialect.  The  humorous  and  quaint  commen- 
tary of  Mr.  Howells  fits  perfectly  with  the  child's 


Books  of  the  Month. 


pictures,  and  the  pictures  themselves  recall  "Will- 
iam Blake  and  Kate  Greenaway,  as  well  as  the 
•  Florentines.  Fortunate  Ihe  old  masters  in  finding 
such  an  interpreter.  —  A  Year  of  Sunshine  may 
perhaps  be  placed  here,  since  it  relies  in  part  upon 
its  red  lines  and  general  attractiveness.  It  is  a 
volume  of  cheerful  extracts  for  every  day  in  the 
year,  selected  and  arranged  by  Kate  Sanborn. 
(Osgood.)  It  has  suspicious  blankness  at  the  foot 
of  each  page :  these  empty  spaces,  however,  are 
not  for  rainy  days,  but  for  autographs.  We  know 
some  persons  who  would  not  have  a  perfectly- 
cloudless  day  if  they  were  asked  to  fill  some  of 
those  blanks. 

Books  for  Young  People.  The  Chronicle  of 
the  Cid  (Uodd,  Mead  &  Co.)  belongs  to  the  very 
commendable  class  of  books,  which  we  heartily 
welcome,  of  world's  literature  made  accessible  to 
the  young.  This  is  mainly  from  Southey's  ver- 
sion, by  Kichard  Markham.  The  illustrations,  by 
H.  W.  McVickar  and  Alfred  Brennan,  have  little 
left  of  what  excellence  they  may  have  had  before 
being  rendered  by  whatever  process  was  adopted. 
—  Our  Boys  in  China  is  described  on  the  title-page, 
apparently  by  the  author,  Harry  W.  French,  as  the 
thrilling  story  of  two  young  Americans,  Scott  and 
Paul  Clayton,  wrecked  in  the  China  Sea,  on  their 
return  from  India,  with  their  strange  adventures 
in  China.  (Lee  &  Shepard.)  The  book  is  a  se- 
quel to  the  author's  previous  Our  Boys  in  India, 
and  is  an  attempt  at  a  reconstruction  of  erroneous 
conceptions  of  China  upon  a  basis  of  improbable 
fact.  —  Sir.  Charles  Nordhoff  s  Man-of-War  Life, 
a  boy's  experience  in  the  United  States  navy  dur- 
ing a  voyage  around  the  world  in  a  ship  of  the 
line  (Dodd,  Mead  &  Co.),  is  a  reissue  of  a  book 
originally  published  in  1854,  but  too  good  to  go 
out  of  print,  and  now  dressed  in  the  book-clothes 
of  the  period.  Mr.  Nordhoff  has  a  manly  way 
about  him  in  his  narrative,  which  recommends  the 
book  to  every  honest  boy.  —  Oliver  Optic  is  writ- 
ing a  series  called  the  Boat-Builder  series,  of 
which  the  second  number,  Snug  Harbor,  or  the 
Champlain  Mechanics,  is  before  us.  (Lee  &  Shep- 
ard.) Mr.  Adams  has  changed  his  tactics  some- 
what, and  now  makes  his  books  less  adventurous 
and  more  educational.  In  this  volume  he  advo- 
cates, by  the  agency  of  a  story,  the  introduction 
of  industrial  training  into  a  common-school  edu- 
cation; and  one  is  quite  ready  to  let  him  ride 
so  excellent  a  hobby,  although  his  horse  would 
get  to  the  end  of  the  road  quicker  if  his  rider  did 
not  think  it  necessary  to  make  a  war  hobby-horse 
of  him.  and  attack  the  riders  who  prefer  other 
roads  to  the  educational  goal.  We  are  thankful 
for  the  change,  however,  even  though  the  young- 
sters of  Mr.  Optic's  invention  still  wear  heads  out 
of  all  proportion  to  their  shoulders.  —  The  series 
of  Minor  Wars  of  the  United  States  (Dodd,  Mead 
&  Co.)  may  be  taken  as  appealing  to  young  read- 
ers. A  recent  volume  is  A  Narrative  History  of 
King  Philip's  War  and  the  Indian  Troubles  in 
New  England,  by  Kichard  Markham.  The  author 
has  used  freely  such  accounts  as  those  of  Gardener 
and  Mrs.  Rowlandson.  It  was  a  pity  to  follow  the 
archaic  spelling  in  copying  the  older  chronicles; 
such  fidelity  is  useful  only  in  strictly  antiquarian 

work.  The  whole  story  is  a  painful  one,  and 
ought  never  to  be  told  by  itself,  but  as  a  part  of 
the  fuller  life  of  the  communities ;  as  it  is  here 
"given,  the  young  reader  will  be  quite  likely  to 
misunderstand  the  whole  business.  —  Another  vol- 
ume in  the  same  series  is  History  of  the  War  with 
Mexico,  by  Horatio  O.  Ladd.  Mr.  Ladd  recog- 
nizes the  moral  obliquity  which  brought  on  the 
war,  but  he  glories  in  the  valor  of  the  American 
soldier-  and  is  enthusiastic  over  the  results  of  the 
war  in  the  increase  of  the  Union  and  its  wealth. 
The  book  gives,  what  is  not  easily  had  elsewhere, 
a  brief  sketch  of  the  war,  not  too  technical  for  the 
ordinary  reader,  and  not  too  burdened  either  with 
philosophy  or  rhetoric.  —  Elsie's  New  Relations, 
what  they  did  and  how  they  fared  at  Ion,  a  sequel 
to  Grandmother  Elsie,  by  Martha  Finley  (Dodd, 
Mead  &  Co.),  may  be  classed  among  juveniles, 
though  the  principal  characters  are  all  young 
married  people.  They  are  married,  but  they  are 
very,  very  young,  and  one  feels  a  little  compunc- 
tion at  being  allowed  to  intrude  on  some  of  their 
very  private  interviews.  —  Stories  from  Livy,  by 
the' Rev.  Alfred  J.  Church  (Dodd,  Mead  &"Co.), 
will  be  found  a  good  book  to  put  beside  the  au- 
thors previous  renderings  of  Virgil  and  others. 
Do  the  publishers  really  think  that  they  treat 
Flaxman  handsomely  in  their  versions  of  his 
designs? — Part  Fifth  of  the  Boy  Travellers  in 
the  Far  East,  by  Thomas  W.  Knox,  io  the  Ad- 
ventures of  Two  Youths  in  a  Journey  through 
Africa.  (Harpers.)  Like  the  previous  volumes,  it 
is  an  ornate,  liberally  illustrated  work,  chock  full 
of  useful  information,  which  the  boys  reel  off  by 
the  yard,  but  .there  is  no  indication  that  two  boys 
ever  did  cross  Africa.  The  whole  journey  has  the 
air  of  having  been  made  in  a  library.  — The  Ball 
of  the  Vegetables,  and  other  stories,  in  prose  and 
verse,  by  Margaret  Eytinge  (Harpers),  is  a  lively 
book,  but  the  liveliness  is  that  of  a  jumping-jack 
rather  than  of  a  cricket.  —  The  Bear- Worshippers 
of  Yezo,  or  the  adventures  of  the  .Tewett  Family 
and  their  friend  Oto  Nambo,  by  Edward  Greey 
(Lee  &  Shepard),  is  a  continuation  of  a  series,  and 
is  evidently  based  on  extensive  acquaintance  with 
Japan ;  but  could  not  the  information  all  have  been 
reduced  in  quantity  and  made  more  rememberable  ? 
—  Kittyleen,  by  Sophie  May  (Lee  &  Shepard),  is 
one  of  the  series  of  Flaxie  Wiggle  Stories,  and, 
like  the  rest,  is  taken  up  with  the  joys  and  sorrows 
of  very  young  children,  whose  language  is  less 
perfectly  developed  than  their  ingenuity.  —  Phil 
and  his  Friends,  by  J.  T.  Trowbridge  (Lee  & 
Shepard),  is  the  story  of  a  boy  who  was  left  in 
pawn  with  a  landlord  by  a  graceless  father  in  debt 
for  his  board.  Starting  with  this  improbability, 
the  rest  of  the  book  is  credible  and  of  no  !•]•<•< -ial 
value.  — Mrs.  Celia  Thaxter's  Poems  for  Children 
(Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.)  is  an  agreeable  liMle 
volume  to  read  with  a  child,  the  incidents  are  so 
simple  and  so  musically  related.  It  ought  to  be 
a  favorite,  with  its  soft  printing  in  brown  ink  and 
its  general  attractiveness.  The  illustrations,  by 
Miss  Plympton.give  a  decorative  look  to  the  book, 
but  are  not  clearly  defined,  like  Mrs.  Thaxter's 
poetry.  —  The  Boys'  and  Girls'  Plutarch  is  parts 
of  Plutarch's  Lives,  edited  for  young  people,  with 


Books  of  the  Month. 


an  introduction  by  John  S.  White,  head-master  of 
Berkeley  School.  (Putnams.)  The  text  is  dough's 
Dryden.  There  are  good  maps  and  some  interest- 
ing engravings.  Perhaps  the  introduction  to  a' 
full  reading  of  Plutarch  might  have  been  more 
attractive  if  it  had  been  briefer;  the  bulk  is 
against  it,  but  we  have  only  welcome  for  an  hon- 
est and  serviceable  book  like  this.  —  Speech  and 
Manners  for  Home  and  School,  by  Miss  E.  S. 
Kirkland  (Jansen,  McClurg  &Co.),  is  a  little  story 
embodying  some  of  the  elementary  principles  of 
grammar  and  conduct.  It  is  a  photographic  re- 
production, the  author  sa3's,  of  certain  parts  of 
school-teaching.  There  is  a  good  deal  of  quiet 
humor,  and  much  ingenious  working  in  of  errors 
of  speech  and  manners.  It  is  a  good  book  to 
place  in  the  hands  of  a  hopelessly  ungrammati- 
cal  and  ill-mannered  child. — The  bound  volume 
of  Harper's  Young  People  for  1883  makes  an  an- 
nual which  it  would  seem  impossible,  from  its  size, 
to  read  through  in  a  year,  yet  its  fifty-two  parts 
have  probably  been  no  severe  tax  upon  those  who 
have  taken  this  watermelon  in  weekly  slices.  — 
Heroes  of  Literature  is  the  title  of  a  volume  for 
young  people,  in  which  John  Dennis  has  en- 
deavored to  excite  an  interest  in  English  poe- 
try by  giving  running  comments  upon  the  per- 
sons of  poets  from  the  earliest  times  to  the  pres- 
ent. (S.  P.  C.  K.,  Young,  New  York.)  — The 
small  reader  will  find  nothing  among  the  Christ- 
mas books  of  the  year  more  delightful  than  The 
Merry  Adventures  of  Robin  Hood,  Written  and 
Illustrated  by  Howard  Pyle.  (Scribner's  Sons.) 
The  old  Sherwood  Forest  legends  never  had  a 
prettier  setting  than  Mr.  Pyle's  pen  and  pencil 
have  given  them. 

History.  In  the  important  series  of  Documents 
relating  to  the  Colonial  History  of  the  State  of 
New  York,  published  for  the  State  by  Weed,  Par- 
sons &  Company,  Albany,  the  latest  volume  is 
Documents  relating  to  the  History  of  the  Early 
Colonial  Settlements,  principally  on  Long  Island, 
with  a  map  of  its  western  part,  made  in  1666, 
translated,  compiled,  and  edited  from  the  original 
records  in  the  office  of  the  secretary  of  state  and 
the  state  library,  by  B.  Fernow,  keeper  of  the 
historical  records.  The  volume  comprises  Indian 
deeds,  patents,  letters,  court  records,  and  the  like, 
a  mine  of  curious  material  for  the  student.  All 
the  old  quarrels  are  here  fought  over,  and  village 
scandal  becomes  subject  for  historical  societies.  — 
A  new  edition  of  Still's  Underground  Railroad 
Records  (William  Still,  Philadelphia)  has  a  life 
of  the  author  added.  Here  is  a  book  which  con- 
tains an  inexhaustible  fund  of  anecdote  and  sug- 
gestion for  the  future  novelist  who  wishes  to  use,  as 
he  will  be  sure  to,  incidents  of  the  struggle  between 
freedom  and  slavery.  There  is  no  more  human 
appeal  in  literature  than  these  annals  make.  — Of 
a  different  sort  is  the  historical  work  in  two  vol- 
umes, by  James  D.  Bulloch,  naval  representative 
of  the  Confederate  States  in  Europe  during  the 
civil  war,  entitled  The  Secret  Service  of  the  Con- 
federate States  in  Europe,  or  How  the  Confederate 
Cruisers  were  Equipped.  (Putnams.)  The  author 
is  probably  the  only  person  who  could  give  so  full 
a  history  of  this  service,  and  the  reader  will  be 

grateful  that  he  is  not  long  detained  over  the 
questions  of  the  conflict,  but  carried  directly  into 
the  history  of  the  secret  service,  which  necessarily 
includes  a  pretty  full  study  of  the  relations  held  to 
the  Confederacy  by  the  government  of  Great  Brit- 
ain. —  Historical  Sketches  of  New  Mexico,  from 
the  Earliest  Records  to  the  American  Occupation, 
by  L.  Bradford  Prince  (Leggett  Bros.,  New  York), 
should  not  be  slighted  because  in  external  appear- 
ance it  is  a  little  unprepossessing.  Judge  Prince 
has  collected  in  a  convenient  form  a  great  deal  of 
curious  and  interesting  material,  arranged  in  chro- 
nological order,  relating  to  New  Mexico,  and  has 
made  his  book  a  useful  brief  for  the  historical  stu- 
dent. —  Oregon,  the  Struggle  for  Possession,  by 
William  Barrows,  is  the  second  volume  in  the 
series  of  American  Commonwealths  (Houghton, 
MifHin  &  Co.),  and  makes  an  excellent  antithesis 
to  Cooke's  Virginia.  Mr.  Barrows  goes  carefully 
over  the  story  of  the  contest  for  Oregon,  and 
brings  out  in  piquant  fashion  the  various  forces 
at  work  in  settling  the  Oregon  question.  His  nar- 
rative of  Whitman's  Ride  will  bring  to  many 
readers  a  new  and  striking  piece  of  American  ro- 
mance, and  his  study  of  Webster's  connection 
with  the  question  throws  light  upon  a  confused 
subject.  —  Newfoundland,  its  history,  its  present 
condition,  and  its  prospects  in  the  future,  is  the 
joint  production  of  Joseph  Hatton  and  the  Rev. 
M.  Harvey.  (Doyle  &  Whittle,  Boston.)  The 
book  has  a  curious  little  history.  The  original 
work  was  written  mainly  by  Mr.  Harvey,  who 
had  free  access  to  materials  in  Newfoundland  and 
the  advantage  of  residence  in  the  country.  He 
was  assisted  by  Mr.  Hatton,  an  accomplished 
journalist,  with  access  to  material  in  London;  the 
book  was  published  in  England,  and  now  is  repub- 
lished  here  under  the  editorial  revision  of  its  prin- 
cipal author.  The  book  thus  has  "growed."  It 
is  an  interesting  work,  by  a  painstaking  student, 
who  sets  about  a  thorough  representation  of  the 
country,  and  if  the  reader  will  add  Mr.  Lowell's 
New  Priest  in  Conception  Bay  he  will  supply  the 
only  apparent  deficiency,  for  the  authors  have  left 
one  to  infer  the  social  characteristics  of  the  peo- 
ple.—  The  Nature  of  Positive  Law,  by  John  M. 
Lightwood  (Macmillan),  may  perhaps  be  included 
in  this  section  because  of  its  direct  relation  to  his- 
toric study.  Mr.  Lightwood  has  undertaken  to 
supplement  and  correct  Austin's  work  by  a  use 
of  such  labors  as  those  of  Sir  Henry  Maine  and 
Von  Ihering,  and  his  general  results  may  be 
summed  up  in  his  statement,  "  Law  is  a  collection 
of  rules  regulating  either  human  actions  or  human 
relations,  which  spring  from  and  explain  the  cur- 
rent rules  of  morality,  and  which  therefore  de- 
pend for  their  support  upon  the  general  assent  of 
the  people,"  and  not  upon  Force,  which  is  only  oc- 
casionally summoned  in  aid. —  Mosaics  of  Grecian 
History,  by  Marcius  Willson  and  Robert  Pierpont 
Willson  (Harpers),  is  an  attempt  to  give  within  a 
moderate  compass  a  History  of  Greece,  of  which 
the  skeleton  is  the  construction  of  the  editors  of 
the  work,  and  the  flesh  is  composed  of  patches 
from  a  great  variety  of  authors.  It  makes  a  nar- 
rative history,  but  it  fails  to  explain  by  its  own 
contents  why  any  one  should  read  history.  —  The 


Books  of  the  Month. 


Course  of  Empire,  outlines  of  the  chief  political 
changes  in  the  history  of  the  world  (arranged  hy 
centuries),  with  variorum  illustrations  by  Charles 
Gardner  Wheeler.  (Osgood.)  This  is  a  histori- 
cal handbook.  Beginning  with  the  fifth  century 
before  Christ,  a  map  of  Europe  is  given  in  colored 
outline,  and  then  follows  text,  containing  a  brief 
statement  of  the  political  complexion.  The  vario- 
rum illustrations  are  short  passages  from  a  variety 
of  authors.  The  plan  excludes  America  from  the 
map,  and  gives  no  conception  of  the  real  historic 
course  of  such  an  empire  as  that  of  England.  We 
cannot  highly  praise  the  scheme  of  the  book. — 
Louis  XIV.  et  Strasbourg,  essai  suj  la  politique 
de  la  France  en  Alsace,  d'apres  des  documents 
officiels  et  ine'dits,  par  A.  Legrelle  (Hachette, 
Paris),  is  a  third  edition,  revised  and  enlarged. 
It  traces  the  history  from  the  Celtic  beginnings 
down  to  the  end  of  the  First  Empire,  but  the  bulk 
of  the  work  of  course  is  concerned  with  the  period 
of  Louis  XIV. 

Biblical  Criticism  and  Ecclesiastical  History. 
The  fourth  volume  of  Dr.  SchafFs  Popular  Com- 
mentary on  the  New  Testament  (Scribners)  in- 
cludes the  Catholic  Epistles  and  Revelation, 
and  thus  completes  the  work.  It  is  very  mi- 
nute, and  to  our  minds  wordy.  Hints  surely 
are  worth  more  than  full  explanations  in  such 
works.  — The  second  volume  of  a  new  edition 
of  Dr.  Schaff's  History  of  the  Christian  Church 
(Scribners)  has  appeared.  It  is  devoted  to  ante- 
nicene  Christianity,  A.  D.  100-325.  In  the  re- 
vision the  author  has  undertaken  to  press  into 
service  the  many  investigations  of  scholars  which 
have  appeared  since  the  publication  of  the  first 
edition.  —  In  the  series  of  the  Fathers  for  English 
Readers,  published  by  the  S.  P.  C.  K.  (Young, 
New  York),  the  latest  volume  eonsbts  of  biogra- 
phies of  St.  Hilary  of  Poitiers  and  St.  Martin  of 
Tours,  by  J.  G.  Cazenove.  —  Perhaps  we  may 
place  here  Arius  the  Libyan,  an  idyl  of  the  prim- 
itive church  (Appleton)  in  the  time  of  Coustan- 
tine  and  Athanasius.  It  is  an  attempt  to  recon- 
struct in  fictitious  form  the  life  of  that  time. 

Literature  and  Literary  History  and  Criticism. 
Prose  Masterpieces  from  Modern  Essayists  (Put- 
nams)  is  a  tidy  series  of  three  volumes,  containing 
essays  by  masters  of  English  style.  The  editor 
confines  his  selection  to  English  and  American  lit- 
erature of  this  century.  Irving,  Hunt,  Lamb,  and 
De  Quincey  are  the  earliest,  and  Leslie  Stephen  is 
the  latest.  It  is  a  delightful  collection  in  attrac- 
tive form.  —  Classic  Heroic  Ballads,  selected  by 
the  editor  of  Quiet  Hours  (Roberts  Bros.),  does 
not  in  the  main  go  back  of  Walter  Scott.  The 
selection  is  certainly  good  for  what  it  contains, 
and  the  editor  has  kept  in  mind  the  two  qualities 
of  such  ballads,  a  story  and  a  song.  — The  Eng- 
lish Grammar  of  \Villiam  Cobbett,  carefully  re- 
vised and  annotated  by  Alfred  Ayres  (Appleton), 
comes  upon  the  heels  of  a  recent  edition  of  the 
same  book,  which  gave  more  notice  of  Cobbett 
himself.  Cobbett's  grammar  has  the  merit  of  be- 
ing exceedingly  practical  and  direct.  The  editor 
has  annotated  the  work  very  closely.  —  Mr.  F.  H. 
Underwood  has  followed  his  biographies  of  Long- 
fellow and  Lowell  with  one  of  Whittier  (Ogood), 
•which  will  serve  as  an  accompaniment  to  his  po- 

ems. —  Mr.  George  Willis  Cooke,  who  prepared  a 
study  of  Emerson,  has  now  produced  George  Eliot, 
a  critical  study  of  her  life,  writings,  and  philoso- 
phy. (Osgood.)  Where  a  writer  like  George  Eliot 
has  written  abundantly  on  a  great  range  of  eth- 
ical, social,  and  religious  subjects,  the  task  of  a 
critic  is  largely  that  of  one  who  should  make  a 
concordance  of  ideas,  and  this  Mr.  Cooke  appears 
to  have  done.  He  has  the  patience  and  charity  of 
a  critic,  but  hardly  the  penetration  which  seizes 
upon  a  central  thought  and  turns  it  into  an  epi- 
gram. —  Slavonic  Literature,  by  W.  R.  Morfill,  is 
a  compilation  from  original  authorities  for  the  use 
of  general  readers  of  the  facts  relating  to  the 
dawn  of  European  literatuie  among  the  Slavs.  (S. 
P.  C.  K.,  Young,  New  York. )  —  Mrs.  Abby  Sage 
Richardson  has  edited  a  translation  of  the  letters 
of  Heloise  to  Abelard,  given  in  Berington's  Lives 
of  Abelard  and  Heloise,  and  furnished  a  graceful 
introduction.  The  book  is  a  dainty  little  volume, 
as  befits  the  subject.  (Osgood.)  —  In  Topics  of 
the  Time  (Putnams),  the  sixth  number  bears  the 
title  Art  and  Literature,  and  contains  half  a  dozen 
papers  from  the  leading  English  reviews.  —  Gold- 
en Thoughts  from  The  Spiritual  Guide  of  Miguel 
Molinos  the  Quietest,  with  preface  by  J.  Henry 
Shorthouse  (Scribners),  may  fairly  be  brought  into 
literature, — as  fairly  as  the  Imitation  of  Christ. 
It  is  more  mystical  than  that  work,  but,  like  it, 
appeals  to  a  fine  consciousness.  —  The  Valley  of 
Unrest,  edited  by  Douglas  Sherley  (J.  P.  Morton 
&  Co.,  Louisville,  Ky.),  is  a  specimen  of  book- 
making  so  unusual  that  it  is  difficult  to  decide  on 
its  literary  merit,  which  seems  not  striking,  com- 
pared with  the  brick-red  paper  upon  which  the 
text  is  printed  in  black  ink.  The  anonymous 
writer  (obviously  the  editor),  who  poses  as  a 
schoolmate  of  Edgar  A.  Poe,  relates  a  pictur- 
esque episode  in  the  boy-life  of  the  poet.  Whether 
or  not  the  story  is  invented,  it  has  an  oddity 
about  it  that  would  charm  even  without  typo- 
graphical eccentricities.  —  The  Macmillans  have. 
issued  a  neat  edition  of  Matthew  Arnold's  prose 
works  in  seven  volumes.  We  shall  find  occasion 
later  to  speak  at  length  of  Mr.  Arnold's  writ- 
ings, and  especially  of  his  poems,  which  ought 
to  have  been  included  in  the  present  collection.  — 
The  Sonnets  of  Milton,  edited  by  Mark  Pattison 
(D.  Appleton  &  Co.),  is  among  the  latest  of  the 
Parchment  series,  —  a  charming  set  of  little  books. 
The  writers  of  poems  of  fourteen  lines  would  do 
well  to  give  night  and  day  to  the  study  of  the 
first  ten  or  twelve  pages  of  Mr.  Pattison's  Intro- 
duction to  the  Sonnets.  This  introductory  essay 
is  admirable,  as  are  also  the  editor's  notes  and 
comments  on  the  Sonnets. 

Fiction.  Hand  and  Ring,  by  Anna  Katharine 
Green  (Putnam),  is  a  story  which  relies  on  the 
author's  ingenuity  in  tying  a  hard  knot,  and  then 
untying  it.  —  Who  's  to  blame  V  by  Henry  Faunt- 
\eroy  (Southern  Methodist  Publishing  House, 
Nashville),  is  an  attack,  in  the  form  of  a  story  of 
Western  life,  upon  the  alleged  rottenness  of  the  ju- 
diciary.—  Nights  with  Uncle  Remus,  myths  and 
legends  of  the  old  plantation,  by  Joel  Chandler 
Harris  (Osgood),  is  a  successor  to  the  jovial  Uncle 
Remus,  and  enriched  by  the  author's  new  confi- 
dence in  his  powers.  One  may  be  a  general  reader 


Books  of  the  Month. 


and  be  delighted,  or  a  comparative  anthropologist, 
or  whatever  it  is,  and  be  edified.  It  is  curious  to 
see  how  JEsop  reappears,  and  the  Greek  slave  finds 
an  avatar  in  the  African  slave.  — Judith,  a  chroni- 
cle of  old  Virginia,  by  Marian  Harlau  (Our  Conti- 
nent Publishing  Co.,  Philadelphia),  is  a  tale  of  the 
Nat  Turner  insurrection,  and  still  more  a  picture 
of  Virginian  life,  which  it  represents  with  firm 
touches. — Belinda  is  Rhoda  Broughton's  latest 
novel  (Appleton),  in  which  intrigue  is  carried  to 
the  last  step  but  one.  It  is  a  feverish,  unwhole- 
some book,  with  a  smirking  bow  to  propriety.  — 
Vagabondia.  by  Mrs.  Burnett  (Osgood),  is  her 
Dorothea-Dolly  novel  corrected,  and,  since  it  must 
live,  given  a  respectable  home  and  dress. — A 
Castle  in  Spain,  by  James  De  Mille  (Harpers), 
enjoj's  some  very  clever  illustrations  by  E.  A. 
Abbey.  —  The  latest  numbers  in  Harper's  Franklin 
Square  Library  are  A  Struggle  for  Fame,  by  Mrs. 
J.  H.  Riddell,  and  Hearts,  by  David  Christie  Mur- 
ray. —  Round  about  Rio,  by  Frank  D.  Y.  Carpen- 
ter (Jansen,  McClurg  &  Co.),  is  a  lively  tourist- 
novel,  in  which  a  party  of  Americans  visit  Rio, 
and  a  wedding  takes  place  on  the  last  fly-leaf. 

Art.  Historical  Handbook  of  Italian  Sculpture, 
by  Charles  C.  Perkins  (Scribners),  is  an  octavo 
volume,  abundantly  illustrated,  in  which  the  sculp- 
ture before  Niccola  Pisano  is  treated  as  a  separate 
essay,  after  which,  in  greater  detail,  follow  three 
books,  The  Revival  and  Gothic  Period,  The  Early 
Renaissance,  and  The  Later  Renaissance.  It  is  a 
pity  that  a  handbook  so  convenient  and  so  full 
should  not  have  enjoyed  better  printing.  —  The 
new  volume  of  L'Art  (J.  W.  Bouton  &  Co.)  does 
more  than  sustain  its  claim  to  the  first  place  among 
art  publications.  The  critical  and  descriptive  let- 
terpress is  unusually  valuable.  M.  Octave  La- 
croix  continues  his  charming  account  of  Un  Voy- 
age Artistique  an  Pays  Basque.  The  various  pa- 
pers on  the  Salon  of  1883  will  reward  the  reader. 
In  the  critical  department  is  an  appreciative  esti- 
mate of  Mr.  C.  B.  Curtis's  unique  catalogue  of  the 
works  of  Velasquez  and  Murillo.  The  excellence 
of  the  literature  of  the  present  issue  is  handsome- 
ly supplemented  by  artist  and  engraver.  Several 
of  the  full-page  reproductions  of  old  masters  are 
exceedingly  fine,  and  there  are  two  etchings,  — 
La  Notivelle  Cathedrale,  and  Le  Quai  de  Rive- 
Neuv  at  Marseilles,  —  which  the  possessor  will  at 
once  desire  to  frame.  —  The  Catalogue  of  the  Art 
Department  of  the  New  England  Manufacturers' 
and  Mechanics'  Institute  (Cupples,  Upham  &  Co., 
is  an  ideal  catalogue.  The  volume  contains  an  al- 
phabetical list  of  731  paintings,  drawings,  engrav- 
ings, etc.,  and  is  illustrated  by  57  full-page  pictures 
reproduced  from  the  original  works  by  etching, 
photo-engraving,  and  the  albertype  process.  In 
almost  every  instance  the  work  thus  reproduced  is 
worthy  of  the  careful  pains  bestowed  upon  it  by 
the  editor,  who  has  placed  us  under  further  obliga- 
tions to  him  by  supplementing  the  collection  with 
a  series  of  well-written  papers  on  various  art-top- 
ics. Among  the  contributors  to  this  section  of  the 
catalogue  are  Arlo  Bates,  E.  H.  Clement,  J.  J. 
Jarves,  Charles  De  Kay,  E.  A.  Silsbee,  and  Mrs. 
M.  G.  Van  Renssalaer.  The  typography  and  pri?it- 
ing  of  the  book  do  credit  to  the  press  of  Mr. 
Arthur  Turnure.  In  mechanical  execution  the 

Paris  Salon  has  issued  no  catalogue  comparable 
with  this. 

Biography.  Life  of  Wagner,  by  Louis  Nohl, 
translated  from  the  German  by  George  P.  Upton 
(Jansen,  McClurg  &  Co.),  furnishes  one  with  a 
somewhat  inflated  account  of  the  musician's  ca- 
reer. It  is  written  by  an  enthusiastic  admirer.  — 
Francis  Bacon,  a  Critical  Review  of  his  Life  and 
Character,  with  selections  from  his  writings,  by 
B.  G.  Lovejoy.  (Estes  &  Lauriat.)  Mr.  Los-ejoy 
adds  on  his  title-page  that  it  is  adapted  for  col- 
leges and  high  schools.  Perhaps  the  justification 
of  this  is  in  the  author's  statement :  "  The  aim  of 
this  sketch  has  been  to  point  out  with  particular- 
ity the  frailty  of  the  man,  in  order  to  avoid  con- 
fusing his  intellectual  excellence  with  his  moral 
weakness."  Will  it  be  believed  that  this  editor, 
enumerating  the  editions  of  Bacon,  stops  short  at 
Ba?il  Montagu's,  which  he  describes  as  a  nearly 
perfect  collection !  —  In  the  New  Plutarch  series  a 
recent  number  is  Marie  Antoinette,  by  Sarah  Tyt- 
ler  (Putnams),  which  aims  to  be  more  personal 
than  historical  in  its  treatment.  The  queen  has 
her  votaries,  though  they  are  not  as  passionate  as 
those  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots. 

Poetry.  Legends,  Lyrics,  and  Sonnets,  by  Fran- 
ces L.  Mace  (Cupples,  Upham  &  Co.),  is  marked 
by  much  true  poetic  feeling,  expending  itself 
largely  upon  subjects  which  do  not  immediately 
win  the  reader.  — Stray  Chords,  by  Julia  R.  Anag- 
nos  (Cupples,  Upham  &  Co.),  is  largely  lyrical 
in  its  character,  with  an  occasional  almost  old- 
fashioned  air, —  as  old-fashioned,  that  is,  as  Moore. 
—  Poems  in  Prose,  by  Ivan  Tourgue"neff  (Cupples, 
Upham  &  Co.),  may  fairly  be  placed  here,  since 
the  mot  if  is  always  a  poetical  one,  and  the  form  is 
often  rhapsodical.  Little  prose  bursts,  a  page  or 
two  long,  give  one  no  ill-conception  of  Tourgue"- 
neff's  sighs  and  breathings.  —  In  Nazareth  Town, 
a  Christmas  Fantasy,  and  other  poems,  by  John 
W.  Chadwick  (Roberts  Bros.),  the  prevailing  sen- 
timent is  that  of  personal  friendship  and  sym- 
pathy. —  Mr.  Edwin  Arnold  has  published  Indian 
Idylls  from  the  Sanskrit  of  the  Mahabharata 
(Roberts  Bros.),  a  translation  for  the  first  time 
into  English  of  some  of  the  stories,  and  inferential- 
ly  an  introduction  to  the  great  fountain  of  Hindu 

Text  Books  and  Education.  American  Col- 
leges, their  Students  and  Work,  by  Charles  F. 
Thwing  (Putnams),  is  a  revised  and  enlarged  edi- 
tion of  a  useful  little  book  by  a  recent  graduate, 
who  has  taken  pains  to  collect  trustworthy  infor- 
mation from  a  number  of  representative  colleges 
of  their  internal  economy  and  the  social  life.  — 
Modern  French  Readings,  edited  by  William  J. 
Knapp  (Ginn,  Heath  &  Co.),  has  for  its  leading 
object  "to  furnish  the  student  with  progressive 
materials  for  becoming  acquainted  with  the  cur- 
rent language  of  France,  under  the  influences  that 
are  giving  it  a  new  phase  of  development."  Thus 
the  earliest  author  cited  is  Berquin,  and  the  latest 
is  Victor  Hugo.  There  is  a  good  collection  of 
notes.  —  Miss  Josephine  E.  Hodgdon,  who  has  be- 
fore compiled  leaflets  from  standard  authors,  Long- 
fellow, Holmes,  Whittier,  and  others,  has  taken 
up  Motley  on  the  same  plan,  intending  the  work 
for  the  convenience  of  classes.  (Harpers.) 


:fHaga?ine  of  Literature3  Science,  art,,  ana 

VOL.  LUX.  — FEBRUARY,  1884.  — No.  COOXVI. 



DR.  WENDELL  had  very  early  ac- 
quired a  few  patients  in  the  widely  scat- 
tered village.  Most  of  them  were  poor, 
and  were  either  mechanics,  or  else  work- 
men attached  to  the  many  woolen  mills 
in  his  neighborhood.  But  as  time  went 
on  he  had  also  attracted,  by  degrees,  a 
few  of  a  somewhat  better  class.  His 
manners  were  gentle  and  amiable,  and 
manners  have  a  good  deal  to  do  with 
business  success  in  medicine,  —  indeed 
sometimes  insure  a  fair  amount  of  it 
even  where  their  possessor  has  but  a 
moderate  share  of  brains,  since  patients 
are  rarely  competent  critics  as  to  all 
that  ought  to  go  to  make  up  a  doctor, 
and  in  fact  cannot  be. 

Meanwhile,  his  life  was  not  a  hard 
one.  He  spent  his  early  morning  at  the 
hospital,  after  seeing  any  urgent  cases 
near  his  home ;  and,  returning  to  Ger- 
mantown  for  his  midday  meal,  went 
back  to  the  hospital  to  make  the  after- 
noon visit. 

The  next  day,  after  the  events  we 
have  described,  as  he  came,  on  his  usual 
evening  round,  to  the  beds  of  Major 
Morton  and  Captain  Gray,  the  Confed- 
erate officer,  he  was  interested  to  see 
that  his  sister  had  accomplished  her  er- 
rand, and  was  standing  beside  Morton, 
in  company  with  a  lady,  and  a  lad  who 
might  have  been  sixteen  years  of  age. 

Glancing  at  the  group,  Wendell  went 
first  to  the  wounded  rebel,  whose  face 
brightened  visibly  at  the  coming  of  the 

"  I  have  been  waiting  to  see  you,"  he 
said.  "I  don't  think  I  am  as  well  as 
I  was.  I  feel  the  being  shut  up  here. 
It 's  such  an  awful  change  from  the  sad- 
dle and  the  open  air !  Please  to  sit 
down,  doctor,  and  don't  be  in  a  hurry.  I 
must  talk  to  you  a  little.  You  doctors 
are  always  in  such  a  hurry  !  " 

"  It 's  rather  hard  to  help  it,"  replied 
Wendell,  good-humoredly ;  "  but  is  there 
anything  especial  I  can  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  want  to  know  distinctly  if 
I  can  pull  through.  It 's  a  thing  you 
doctors  hate  to  be  asked,  but  still  it  is  a 
question  I  would  like  to  have  answered." 

"  I  do  not  see  why  you  cannot.  You 
have  a  serious  wound,  but  you  were  not 
hurt  in  any  vital  organ.  /  should  say 
you  ought  to  get  well." 

"  Well,  it 's  a  pretty  grim  business 
with  me,  doctor.  I  am  alone  in  the 
world  with  one  motherless  girl,  and  I 
want  to  get  well !  I  must  get  well !  " 

"  And  so  you  will." 

"  No ;  to  tell  you  the  truth,  that 's  my 
trouble.  I  don't  think  I  shall." 

"  Oh,"  exclaimed  Wendell,  "  you  may 
say  you  don't  feel  as  if  you  should ; 
but  when  you  say  you  don't  think  you 
will,  I  am  afraid  I  feel  inclined  to  laugh, 
which  is  perhaps  the  very  best  thing  I 

Copyright,  1884,  by  HODGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  Co. 


In  War  Time. 


can  do  for  you.     Is  n't  it  as  well  to  let 
me  do  the  thinking  for  you  ?  " 

"  I  can't  explain  it,"  said  Gray  dole- 
fully, "  but  the  idea  sticks  in  my  head 
that  I  shall  die." 

"  But  why  ?  Are  you  weaker  ?  Do 
you  suffer  more  ?  " 

"  No ;  I  have  nothing  new  except  a 
queer  sensation  of  confusion  in  my  head, 
and  —  then  I  can't  change  my  ideas  at 
will.  They  stick  like  burrs,  and  —  I  can't 
get  rid  of  them." 

"  Quinine,  I  guess,"  said  Wendell, 

"  No ;  I  Ve  taken  no  end  of  that,  in 
my  time.  I  know  how  that  feels.  Would 
you  mind  asking  Dr.  Lagrange  to  see 

"  Oh,  of  course  not ;  but  it  is  a  rule 
not  to  call  on  the  surgeon  in  charge  un- 
less there  is  some  grave  necessity." 

"  Well,  I  don't  want  to  violate  any 
rules.  You  are  all  very  kind,  and  for 
a  prisoner  I  ought  to  be  satisfied  ;  but  I 
am  sure  that  I  am  going  to  die." 

"  I  do  most  honestly  think  you  are 
needlessly  alarmed,"  Wendell  replied ; 
"  but  if  you  wish  it,  I  will  ask  the  doc- 
tor to  look  at  you." 

The  assistant  surgeon  had  a  faint  but 
distinct  impression  that  this  wish  im- 
plied a  distrust  of  his  own  judgment, 
and  to  one  of  his  temperament  this  was 
displeasing ;  yet  knowing  the  request  to 
be  not  unreasonable,  he  at  once  sent  an 
orderly  for  the  surgeon  in  charge,  and 
saying,  "  I  will  see  you  with  Dr.  La- 
grange  in  a  few  minutes,"  turned  to  the 
other  bed. 

Major  Morton  looked  better  ;  his  mus- 
tache was  trimmed,  and  the  long  Van- 
dyke beard  became  well  his  rather  som- 
bre face. 

"  This  is  my  wife,"  he  said.  "  Dr. 
Wendell  —  Mrs.  Morton,"  —  Mrs.  Mor- 
ton bowed  across  the  bed,  —  "  and  my 
boy  Arthur.  They  have  just  come,  doc- 
tor ;  and  do  not  you  think  I  coakl  be 
moved  to  a  hotel  to-day  ?  " 

"  Well,  hardly ;  but  I  will  talk  it  over 

with  Dr.  Lagrange,  who  will   be  hero 

Busying  himself  in  getting  chairs 
brought  for  the  patient's  friends,  he 
glanced  at  them  more  attentively,  —  lit- 
tle dreaming  what  share  in  his  future 
the  manly  lad  and  his  handsome,  some- 
what stately  mother  were  to  have.  Her 
perfectly  simple  manners,  touched  with 
a  certain  coldness  and  calm  which  made 
any  little  display  of  feeling  in  her  tones 
the  more  impressive,  had  their  full  ef- 
fect on  Wendell.  This  type  of  woman 
was  strange  to  him.  Her  husband  might 
have  been  full  forty,  and  she  herself 
some  three  or  four  years  his  junior;  but 
she  was  yet  in  the  vigor  of  womanhood, 
and  moved  with  the  easy  grace  of  one 
accustomed  to  the  world.  Whatever 
were  her  relations  to  her  husband, — 
and  they  had  met,  as  Wendell  learned 
afterwards  from  his  sister,  without  any 
marked  effusion  in  their  greeting,  —  for 
all  other  men,  at  least,  she  had  a  certain 
attractiveness,  difficult  to  analyze. 

The  type  was,  as  I  have  said,  a  novel 
one  to  Wendell ;  nor  was  he  wrong  in 
the  feeling,  which  came  to  him  with  bet- 
ter knowledge  of  her  and  more  accurate 
observation,  that  the  satisfaction  which 
she  gave  him  lay  in  a  group  of  qualities 
which  beauty  may  emphasize,  but  which, 
like  good  wine,  acquires  more  delicate 
and  subtle  flavors  as  years  go  by. 

"  Mr.  Morton  seems  better  than  I  ex- 
pected to  find  him,"  she  said,  "and  I 
know  you  must  have  taken  admirable 
care  of  him.  With  your  help,  I  am  sure 
we  could  get  him  to  a  hotel ;  and  then  in 
a  few  days  I  might  open  our  country 
house  on  the  Wissahickon,  and  we  could 
easily  carry  him  there,  —  easily,  quite 
easily,"  she  added,  with  a  gentle  but  em- 
phatic gesture  of  shutting  her  fan. 

Wendell  had  less  doubt  after  she  had 
spoken  than  before.  In  fact,  his  intel- 
lectual judgment  of  the  case  was  unal- 
tered; but  although  his  medical  opin- 
ions upon  a  disease,  or  a  crisis  of  it, 
were  apt,  like  the  action  of  the  compass 


In  War  Time. 


needle,  to  be  correct,  they  were  as  liable 
to  causes  of  disturbance,  and  were  likely 
to  become  doubtful  to  their  originator 
in  the  face  of  positive  opponent  senti- 
ments ;  or  even  of  obstacles  to  their 
practical  results  which  should  never 
have  had  any  influence.  Although  un- 
conscious of  it,  he  was  in  this  manner 
quite  frequently  controlled  by  his  sis- 
ter's tranquil  decisiveness.  Without 
knowing  why  he  yielded,  he  began  now 
to  edge  over  mentally  to  Mrs.  Morton's 
side  of  the  argument. 

He  said,  in  reply  to  her,  "  Of  course, 
if  you  have  a  country  house,  that  would 
make  the  change  more  easy." 

In  fact,  it  seemed  pleasantly  natural 
to  find  a  ground  of  agreement  with  this 
woman,  whose  stateliness  made  her  cour- 
tesy yet  more  gracious.  She  herself  did 
not,  it  is  true,  see  very  clearly  the  rea- 
sonableness of  his  answer,  but  she  was 
not  apparently  surprised  at  his  defection 
from  his  former  statement. 

"  We  '11  settle  it  somehow,"  groaned 
the  major.  "  Do  something ;  get  me  out 
of  this  den,  at  least.  The  rebels  were  a 
trifle  to  these  flies  !  " 

"  Of  course,  my  dear,"  assented  Mrs. 
Morton,  "  I  wanted  to  feel  that  Dr.  — 
Dr.  —  you  said  "  — 

"  Wendell,  —  Wendell  is  my  name." 

"  Oh,  yes,  Dr.  Wendell !  I  was  think- 
ing more  of  the  kind  remark  you  had 
made  than  of  your  name  !  It  is  a  good 
old  New  England  surname,  I  think. 
But  before  Dr.  Lagrange  comes,  I  want 
to  say  how  gratified  I  am  to  find  that 
the  decision  to  which  my  own  anxiety 
leads  me  should  be  justified  by  your 
medical  judgment." 

Wendell  was  a  little  taken  aback  at 
this  ready  assumption.  As  he  looked 
up,  hardly  knowing  wkat  answer  to 
make,  Dr.  Lagrange  came  hastily  to 
join  their  group,  and  was  met  by  Mrs. 
Morton,  with  whom  he  was  evidently  on 
terms  of  easy  acquaintanceship. 

"  Dr.  Wendell  is,  I  think,  rather  in- 
clined to  believe  that  the  major  may  be 

taken  to  a  hotel,  and  in  a  few  days 
moved  out  to  our  country  home.  I 
hope  our  doctors  won't  differ.  What 
do  you  think  ?  " 

"  Ah,  my  lady,"  and  the  surgeon 
shook  his  finger  at  her  warniugly,  "  you 
have  changed  many  folks,  —  I  mean, 
many  men's  ideas ;  and  I  fancy  you 
are  keeping  your  hand  in  with  my 
young  friend.  I  don't  think  that  this 
morning,  before  you  came,  when  we  dis- 
cussed the  question,  Dr.  Wendell  was 
then  quite  of  your  opinion." 

Wendell  exclaimed,  "  I  did  not  at  that 
time  understand  "  — 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say  not,  and  I  don't 
blame  you  much  for  taking  Mrs.  Mor- 
ton's view.  But  practically,  my  good 
friends,  Morton's  leg  must  be  taken  into 
account ! " 

"  Of  course,"  replied  Mrs.  Morton, 
"  that  is  the  first  consideration,  and  real- 
ly the  only  one." 

"  He  has,"  urged  Lagrange,  "  a  rather 
serious  wound,  and  to-day  a  quick  pulse 
and  a  little  fever.  I  would  rather  he 
waited  a  few  days,  —  two  or  three,  per- 
haps." Then  Wendell  spoke  eagerly, 
under  his  breath,  a  few  words  to  his 
superior,  on  which  the  latter  continued, 
"  Yes,  that  will  do.  Indeed,  I  am  very 
much  obliged  by  your  thoughtfulness 
for  my  friend.  Dr.  Wendell  has,"  and 
he  turned  to  Mrs.  Morton,  "  a  room 
in  the  hospital,  a  very  good  and  airy 
room,  which  he  wishes  Major  Morton 
to  occupy." 

Wendell  added,  "  It  is  no  great  sacri- 
fice, as  I  rarely  use  it  at  night ;  but  in 
any  case,  Major  Morton  is  welcome  to 

The  young  fellow  at  Morton's  side 
had  been  thus  far  a  listener.  Now  he 
exclaimed,  warmly,  "  Thank  you  very 
much,  sir !  It  is  a  great  kindness  to 
give  to  a  stranger." 

"  For  my  part,"  said  Mrs.  Morton, 
"  I  have  not  the  courage  to  refuse." 

"  I  should  think  not !  "  cried  the  ma- 
jor. "  By  Jove,  refuse  !  "  and  he  con- 


In  War  Time. 


tributed  his  own  share  of  thauks,  with  a 
reasonable  amount  of  emphasis.  Then 
he  asked,  "  Are  there  nets  hi  the  win- 
dows ? "  . 

"  Yes,"  returned  Wendell,  a  little 

"  And  is  the  room  a  good  size  ?  " 

"  Quite  needlessly  large  for  one,"  an- 
swered Lagrange,  quickly,  "  and  we  are 
very  full.  "Would  you  mind  sharing  it 
with  another  officer  ?  It  will  be  only 
for  a  day  or  two." 

Morton  did  not  like  the  prospect,  but 
saw  at  once  the  need  to  yield. 

"  Of  course,"  he  replied,  "  if  you  are 
crowded ;  but  I  would  rather,"  and  he 
spoke  low,  "  have  my  rebel  neighbor 
than  some  one  I  do  not  know  at  all." 

"But,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Morton,  "I 
am  sure  that  when  Dr.  Lagrange  con- 
siders it  he  will  see  that  you  would  be 
far  more  comfortable  alone." 

"  I  am  afraid,"  returned  Lagrange, 
"  that  I  must  accept  the  major's  propo- 
sition. And  now  I  shall  run  away,  for 
fear  you  persuade  me  to  change  my 
mind ;  and  I  shall  take  Wendell,  lest 
you  get  him,  too,  into  some  mischief. 
Come,  doctor,  let  us  see  Gray  !  "  He 
turned  smiling  to  the  rebel  officer,  with 
whom  he  conversed  attentively  and  pa- 
tiently for  some  time.  Then  he  moved 
away  with  a  cheerful  face  from  the  bed, 
saying  some  pleasantly  hopeful  words  of 
the  comforts  of  the  new  room.  But  as 
soon  as  he  was  out  of  earshot  he  spoke 
to  his  junior,  "  Watch  that  man  well. 
There  is  something  odd  in  his  manner. 
He  has  a  way  of  emphasizing  all  his 
words.  Perhaps  it  is  natural,  but  I 
never  like  to  hear  a  wounded  man  insist 
that  he  is  going  to  die !  And  by  the 
way,  stick  to  your  own  opinions,  and 
don't  let  the  pressure  or  notions  of  lay 
folks  push  you  off  a  path  you  meant  to 
tread.  Mrs.  Morton  is  what  my  old 
nurse  used  to  call  '  main  masterful,'  but 
I  have  found  her,  as  you  may,  a  good 
friend.  In  fact,  they  are  not  very  far- 
away neighbors  of  yours.  I  will  re- 

member this  when  they  move  Morton 
to  the  country." 

Wendell  thanked  him.  He  felt  that 
he  himself  had  done  a  gracious  and 
serviceable  act  to  pleasant  people. 

"  And  what  a  fine  lad  that  is,  of  Mor- 
ton's ! "  said  Lagrange.  "  I  like  his 

"  Yes ;  a  nice  boy,  I  should  think," 
returned  Wendell. 

When  the  two  officers,  the  next  morn- 
ing, were  eagerly  eating  a  well-cooked 
breakfast,  in  their  new  and  cheerful 
quarters,  under  the  care  of  an  orderly 
assigned  to  them  by  Wendell,  Morton, 
who  was  in  high  good  humor,  remarked, 
"  By  George,  this  is  better  than  that 
ward  !  I  feel  like  myself." 

"  It  is  certainly  more  comfortable," 
rejoined  his  room-mate,  —  "good  coffee, 
fruit,  —  I  have  n't  seen  an  orange  be- 
fore for  a  year,  —  but  I  don't  feel  quite 
right  yet." 

"  Oh,  you  '11  come  up,"  said  Morton, 
who  was  apt  to  relate  the  condition  of 
others  to  his  own  state. 

"  I  suppose  so,  —  I  hope  so  !  But  I 
don't  feel  sure,  and  that  strikes  me  as 
odd,  because  I  have  been  hit  before,  and 
never  had  the  depression  I  now  feel. 
Then  that  lad  of  yours  made  me  think 
about  my  own  child." 

"  And  where  is  he  ?  " 

"  At  school.  It 's  a  girl.  I  did  not 
tell  you  it  was  a  girl.  She  has  been  at 
school  in  Railway.  I  could  not  either 
get  her  away  or  send  money  to  her,  and 
she  and  I  are  pretty  much  alone  in  the 
world.  By  George,  I  don't  suppose  she 
would  know  me  !  " 

"  Why  not  send  for  her  ?  "  suggested 
Morton,  whose  enormous  increase  in 
comfort  disposed  him  to  indulge  his  usual 
desire  that  everybody  about  him  should 
be  satisfied,  provided  it  did  not  incom- 
mode Major  Morton.  "  We  '11  get  that 
doctor  of  ours  to  ask  his  sister  to  write 
and  have  the  child  brought  on  to  see 
you,  and  my  wife  can  take  care  of  her 
for  a  few  days." 


In  War  Time. 


"  But  I  have  absolutely  no  money  !  " 

On  this  point  Morton  was  delightfully 
indifferent.  He  had  always  had  money 
and  what  money  buys,  and  just  now,  in 
the  ennui  of  illness,  this  man  interested 

"  I  can  lend  you  what  you  want.  I  '11 
arrange  it." 

"  I  do  not  know  how  I  can  thank 
you  !  " 

"  Then  don't  do  it."  The  major  was 
languidly  good-natured,  and  had  the 
amiability  so  common  among  selfish 
people.  A  West  Point  man  by  educa- 
tion, he  had  served  his  two  years  on  the 
plains,  and  then  left  the  army,  to  return 
to  it  with  eagerness,  as  it  offered  com- 
mand, which  he  loved,  and  a  rescue,  for 
a  time  at  least,  from  the  monotony  of  a 
life  without  serious  aim  OF  ambition. 

After  some  further  talk  about  the  girl, 
Morton  asked,  "  Where  were  you  in  that 
infernal  row  at  Gettysburg  ?  There  's 
no  use  in  either  of  our  armies  attack- 
ing the  other.  The  fellows  who  try  it 
always  get  thrashed.  I  began  to  think 
we  should  never  be  anything  else  but 

"  I  am  sorry  the  charm  is  broken  !  " 
said  Gray.  "  I  was  in  the  Third  South 
Carolina,  when  we  got  our  quietus  on 
the  crest  of  Cemetery  Hill.  What  a 
scene  that  was !  I  can  see  it  now.  I 
was  twice  in  among  your  people,  and 
twice  back  among  my  own ;  but  how,  I 
can  no  more  tell  than  fly.  Once  I  was 
knocked  down  with  a  stone.  It  was  like 
a  devilish  sort  of  Donnybrook  fair." 

"  How  were  you  hurt  ?  I  was  on  the 
crest  myself,  and  after  I  got  this  ac- 
cursed ball  in  my  leg  I  lay  there,  and 
as  I  got  a  chance  in  the  smoke  I  cracked 
away  with  my  revolver.  I  remember 
thinking  it  queer  that  I  never  had  struck 
a  man  in  anger  since  I  grew  up,  and 
here  I  was  in  a  mob  of  blood-mad  men, 
and  in  a  frenzy  to  kill  some  one.  Droll, 
is  n't  it  ?  " 

"  For  my  part,"  returned  Gray,  "  I 
was  as  crazy  as  the  rest  until  I  got  a 

pistol  ball  in  my  right  shoulder.  By 
George,  perhaps  you  are  the  very  man 
who  shot  me  !  " 

"  I  am  rather  pleased  to  be  able  to 
say,"  responded  Morton,  stiffly,  "  that  I 
do  not  know  whom  I  shot." 

"  I  should  be  very  glad  to  think  it 
was  you." 

"  And  why,  please  ?  " 

"  Well,  it  would  be  a  comfort  to 
know  it  was  a  gentleman." 

The  idea  had  in  it  nothing  absurd  to 
Morton.  He  thought  that  perhaps  he 
would  have  felt  so  himself,  but  he  was 
pretty  sure  that  he  would  not  have  said 
so,  and  he  answered  with  perfect  tact : 
"  For  any  other  reason,  I  should  infi- 
nitely regret  to  think  it  had  been  I ;  and 
were  it  surely  I,  your  pleasant  reason 
would  not  lessen  the  annoyance  I  should 
feel ; "  and  then,  laughing,  "  I  will  prom- 
ise not  to  do  it  any  more." 

At  this  moment  Wendell  came  in, 
and.  seeing  the  flushed  face  of  Captain 
Gray,  said,  — 

"  I  think  I  would  n't  talk  much,  and 
above  all  don't  discuss  the  war." 

"  Oh,  confound  the  war,  doctor  !  " 
exclaimed  Morton.  "  It  is  only  the  edi- 
tors who  fight  off  of  battle  fields.  How- 
ever, we  promise  to  be  good  boys  ! " 

"  I  don't  think  our  talk  hurts  me," 
said  Gray.  "  I  was  saying  that  perhaps 
the  major  might  be  the  man  who  shot 
me.  Queer  idea,  was  n't  it  ?  And  what 
is  more  odd,  it  seems  to  keep  going 
through  my  head.  What's  that  Ten- 
nyson says  about  the  echo  of  a  silent 
song  that  comes  and  goes  a  thousand 
tunes  ?  " 

"  A  brain  echo  ?  "  murmured  Wen- 
dell. "  I,  for  one,  should  n't  think  it 
very  satisfactory  to  know  who  shot  me. 
I  should  only  hate  the  man  unreason- 

"  But  don't  you  think  that  it  would 
be  pleasanter  to  know  he  was  a  gentle- 
man ?  " 

To  Wendell,  with  all  his  natural  re- 
finement, the  sentiment  appeared  incon- 


In  War  Time. 


ceivably  ludicrous,  and,  laughing  aloud, 
he  rejoined,  "  I  don't  think  I  can  settle 
that  question,  but  I  hope  you  will  quit 
talking.  I  will  get  you  some  books,  if 
you  like.  Oh,  by  the  way,  here  are  the 
papers ;  "  and  so  saying  he  walked  away, 
much  amused,  and  in  a  mood  of  ana- 
lytic wonder  at  the  state  of  mind  and 
the  form  of  social  education  which  could 
bring  a  man  to  give  utterance  to  so 
quaint  an  idea. 

A  moment  later  he  returned  to  the 
bedside  to  discuss  a  request  of  the  ma- 
jor, who  had  asked  him  to  write  about 
Captain  Gray's  child. 

"If  you  wish  it,"  said  Wendell,  "I 
think  my  sister  might  go  to  Rahway." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Gray  ;  "  that  is  quite 
too  much  to  ask." 

"  Then,"  suggested  Morton,  "  as  you 
are  so  kind,  could  n't  you  take  the  little 
girl  in  for  a  few  days,  doctor?  I  — 
that  is  to  say,  there  will  be  no  trouble 
about  the  board." 

"  Certainly,  if  you  wish  it,"  an- 
swered the  doctor.  "  I  am  quite  sure 
that  my  sister  will  not  object.  Ann 
shall  write  at  once.  But  is  that  all  ? 
Can  I  do  anything  else  for  you  ?  No  ? 
Well,  then,  good-night." 


Among  the  many  permanent  marks 
which  the  great  war  left  upon  the  life 
of  the  nation,  and  that  of  its  constituent 
genera  of  human  atoms,  none  were  more 
deep  and  more  alterative  than  those 
with  which  it  stamped  the  profession  of 
medicine.  In  all  other  lands  medicine 
had  places  of  trust  and  even  of  power, 
in  some  way  related  to  government ;  but 
with  us,  save  when  some  unfortunate 
physician  was  abruptly  called  into  pub- 
lic notice  by  a  judicial  trial,  and  shared 
for  a  time  with  ward  politicians  the  tem- 
perate calm  of  newspaper  statements, 
he  lived  unnoted  by  the  great  public, 
and  for  all  the  larger  uses  he  should 

have  had  for  the  commonwealth  quite 
unemployed.  The  war  changed  the  re- 
lations of  the  profession  to  the  state  and 
to  the  national  life,  and  hardly  less  re- 
markably altered  its  standards  of  what 
it  should  and  must  demand  of  itself  in 
the  future.  Our  great  struggle  found 
it,  as  a  calling,  with  little  of  the  na- 
tional regard.  It  found  it  more  or  less 
humble,  with  reason  enough  to  be  so. 
It  left  it  with  a  pride  justified  by  con- 
duct which  blazoned  its  scutcheon  with 
endless  sacrifices  and  great  intellectual 
achievements,  as  well  as  with  a  profes- 
sional conscience  educated  by  the  pa- 
tient performance  of  every  varied  form 
of  duty  which  the  multiplied  calls  of  a 
hard-pressed  country  could  make  upon 
its  mental  and  moral  life. 

Vast  hospitals  were  planned  and  ad- 
mirably built,  without  the  advice  of 
architects,  by  physicians,  who  had  to 
learn  as  they  went  along  the  special 
constructive. needs  of  different  climates, 
and  to  settle  novel  and  frequent  hygienic 
questions  as  they  arose.  In  and  near 
the  locality  of  my  tale,  the  hospitals 
numbered  twenty-five  thousand  beds  for 
the  sick  and  wounded  ;  and  these  huge 
villages,  now  drawn  on  by  the  war,  now 
refilled  by  its  constant  strife,  were  man- 
aged with  a  skill  which  justified  the 
American  test  of  hotel-keeping  as  a 
gauge  of  ability.  A  surgeon  taken  ab- 
ruptly from  civil  life,  a  country  physi- 
cian, a  retired  naval  surgeon,  were  fair 
specimens  of  the  class  on  which  fell 
these  enormous  responsibilities.  We 
may  well  look  back  with  gratification 
and  wonder  at  the  exactness,  the  disci- 
pline, the  comfort,  which  reigned  in  most 
of  these  vast  institutions. 

In  this  evolution  of  hitherto  unused 
capacities,  Dr.  Wendell  shared.  In  some 
ways  it  did  him  good  service,  and  in  oth- 
ers it  was  harmful.  The  definiteness  of 
hospital  duty  was  for  a  man  so  unener- 
getic  of  great  value.  He  was  a  wheel 
in  a  great  piece  of  mechanism,  and  had 
to  move  with  the  rest  of  it.  In  time 


In  War  Time. 


this  might  have  substantially  altered  his 
habits ;  but  in  a  hospital  there  are,  as 
elsewhere,  opportunities  for  self-indul- 
gence ;  indeed,  more  in  a  military  hos- 
pital than  elsewhere,  since  there  the 
doctor  lacks  largely  the  private  criti- 
cism and  the  demands  of  influential 
patients,  which  in  a  measure  help  to 
keep  men  alert  in  mind,  thoughtful,  and 
accurate.  Moreover,  the  rush  and  hurry 
of  the  wholesale  practice  of  medicine, 
inseparable  from  overflowing  military 
hospitals,  was  hostile  to  the  calm  study 
of  cases,  and  to  the  increasing  exactions 
which  new  and  accurate  methods  of 
diagnosis  and  treatment  were  then,  and 
are  now,  making.  On  the  whole,  the 
effect  on  Wendell  was  bad.  He  did  his 
work,  and,  as  he  was  intelligent,  often 
did  it  well ;  but  his  medical  conscience, 
overweighted  by  the  need  for  incessant 
wakefulness,  and  enfeebled  by  natural 
love  of  ease  and  of  mere  intellectual 
luxuries,  suffered  from  the  life  he  led, 
and  carried  into  his  after  days  more  or 
less  of  the  resultant  evil.  Happily  for 
his  peace  of  mind,  as  for  that  of  many 
doctors,  no  keen  critic  followed  him,  or 
could  follow  him,  through  the  little  er- 
rors of  unthoughtful  work,  often  great 
in  result,  which  grew  as  he  continued  to 
do  his  slipshod  tasks.  Like  all  men 
who  practice  that  which  is  part  art,  part 
science,  he  lived  in  a  world  of  possible, 
and  I  may  say  of  reasonable,  excuses 
for  failures;  and  no  man  knew  better 
than  he  how  to  use  his  intellect  to  apol- 
ogize to  himself  for  lack  of  strict  obedi- 
ence to  the  moral  code  by  which  his 
profession  justly  tests  the  character  of 
its  own  labor. 

When  Wendell  reported  for  duty,  on 
the  following  day,  and  had  signed,  as 
usual,  the  roll  which  indicated  that  he 
was  present  at  a  set  hour,  he  was  told 
that  the  surgeon  in  charge  desired  to  see 
him ;  and  accordingly  he  stopped  in  the 
little  room  which  that  officer  reserved 
for  his  own  personal  needs.  As  Wen- 
dell paused  in  front  of  the  table,  Dr. 

Lagrange  looked  up,  and  putting  aside 
his  pen  said,  — 

"  Good-morning.  I  have  endeavored, 
Dr.  Wendell,  not  to  forget  that  the  gen- 
tlemen on  duty  here  have  not  all  of  them 
had  the  advantage  of  army  life,  but 
there  are  certain  matters  which,  if  not 
of  first  importance,  have  their  value, 
and  which  I  cannot  overlook.  I  ob- 
serve that  you  do  not  always  wear  an 
assistant  surgeon's  uniform,  and  that 
last  week,  when  officer  of  the  day,  you 
wore  no  sash.  Pardon  me,  I  am  not 
quite  through.  Twice,  of  late,  you  have 
signed  your  name  as  present  at  the 
hour  of  the  morning  visit,  when  in  one 
case  it  was  ten  minutes  after,  and  in 
another  eleven  minutes  after." 

"  I  did  not  think,  sir,  it  could  make 
any  difference." 

"  That,  sir,  I  must  look  upon  as  a 
criticism  of  a  superior's  opinion.  If  I 
did  not,  as  surgeon  in  charge,  consider 
it  of  moment,  I  should  not  have  spoken  ; 
but,  and  with  your  permission,  I  now 
speak  only  as  an  older  man,  and  one, 
as  you  know,  who  is  disposed  to  like 
and  help  you." 

"  Of  course,  I  shall  be  very  much 
obliged,"  Wendell  said.  It  must  be  add- 
ed that  he  did  not  feel  so.  He  inferred 
that,  as  he  had  a  better  intellectual  ma- 
chinery and  much  wider  knowledge  than 
the  superior  officer,  he  must  be  natu- 
rally elevated  above  the  judgments  of 
such  a  person. 

"  It  is  not,"  continued  Lagrange, "  the 
want  of  punctuality  to  which  I  now  re- 
fer, —  that  is  an  official  matter.  It  is 
that  you  should  shelter  yourself  under  a 
false  statement,  however  minutely  false." 

Dr.  Wendell  began  with  irritation : 
"  I  do  not  think  any  one  could  suspect 
me  —  could  suspect  me  of  that ! " 

"  Then,"  replied  Lagrange, "  you  were 
not  aware  of  the  hour  ?  I  hope  I  don't 
annoy  you.  I  like  you  too  well  to  do  so 
without  cause,  and,  as  I  said,  I  am  con- 
scious that  I  am  putting  the  matter  in  an 
un-official  shape." 


In  War  Time. 


Wendell  bowed,  and,  having  reflected 
a  little,  said,  "  Thank  you,  sir.  Pray 
speak  freely.  I  can  only  be  grateful  for 
whatever  you  think  fit  to  say." 

«  "Well,  then,"  added  Lagrange,  "  let 
let  me  go  a  step  further.  Try  to  be 
more  accurate  in  your  work,  and  —  may 
I  say  it  ?  —  a  little  more  energetic,  just 
a  little,"  and  the  old  army  surgeon  smil- 
ingly put  out  his  hand.  "  Don't  spoil 
my  predictions  of  success  for  you  in 
life  !  You  have  better  brains  than  I 
ever  had,  but "  — 

"  Oh,  sir ! "  exclaimed  Wendell, 
touched  with  the  other's  want  of  ego- 

"  Yes,  yes,"  went  on  Lagrange,  laugh- 
ing ;  "  but  I  should  beat  you  at  most 
things,  notwithstanding.  There  —  you 
won't  misunderstand  me,  I  am  sure," 
he  added,  with  a  gentle  sweetness, 
which  like  most  bits  of  good  manners 
was  alike  pleasant  and  contagious. 

The  younger  man  returned,  "  You  are 
very  good  to  me.  I  shall  try  to  re- 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Lagrange ;  and 
then,  in  his  official  tones,  "  Have  you 
seen  Major  Morton  ?  " 

"  Not  yet,  sir.     I  have  just  come." 
"  True  —  of  course ;  but   that   other 
man,  —  what 's  his  name,  the  rebel  ?  " 

"  Gray,  sir.  He  is  in  a  curious  way. 
I  think  his  head  must  be  wrong.  He 
insists  that  Major  Morton  shot  him." 

"  That  is  strange,"  returned  the  sur- 
geon ;  "  very  unusual,  in  fact.  Some  ac- 
cident sets  an  idea  in  a  man's  head,  and 
there  it  stays.  I  have  heard  of  such 
cases.  I  would  like  to  separate  them 
at  once,  but  we  have  not  a  vacant  bed. 
See  him  as  soon  as  possible." 

When  Wendell  left  Lagrange's  room 
he  went  immediately  to  visit  Gray.  The 
door  was  open,  to  secure  a  cool  draught 
of  air ;  and  hearing  the  rebel  officer 
speaking,  the  assistant  surgeon  paused 
a  moment  to  listen.  The  voice  he  heard 
was  decided,  irritated,  and  a  little  loud : 
"  I  think  I  remember  now ;  yes,  sir, 

you  were  on  the  ground.     I  saw  you 
shoot,  and  I  don't  blame  you  !  " 

"  Good  heavens,  you  could  n't  have 
seen  me !  By  George,  I  never  heard 
anything  so  absurd  !  Have  the  good- 
ness not  to  repeat  it." 

"  You  doubt  my  word,  then,  sir  ?  " 
"  Oh,  no,  what  stuff ! " 
"  Then  apologize,  sir.     I  say,  apolo- 
gize ! " 

"  Pshaw  !  " 

At  this  moment  Wendell  entered. 
"  Captain  Gray,"  he  said,  "  this  won't 
do  !  You  have  forgotten  your  prom- 
ise about  talking.  Come,  put  this  ther- 
mometer under  your  tongue,"  and  with 
a  finger  on  his  pulse  Wendell  wait- 
ed patiently  a  few  minutes.  "  Hum,"  he 
said  to  himself,  not  liking  the  results 
of  his  observation.  Then  he  asked  a 
few  questions,  and  wrote  a  prescription, 
which  meant  decided  and  immediate 

"  Am  I  ill  ?  "  said  the  captain. 
"  You  are  ill  enough  to  keep  quiet." 
"  But  he  did  shoot  me." 
"  Nonsense !     You  are  feverish,  and 
your  head  is  out  of  order." 

"  But  he  shot  me !  I  say,  he  shot 

"  Oh,  confound  it !  "  growled  Morton. 
"  Suppose  I  did  ? " 

"  There,  I  knew  it,"  exclaimed  Gray, 
—  "I  knew  it,  sir !  He  says  so." 

"  I  said  no  such  thing !  Doctor,  may 
I  trouble  you  a  moment  ?"  As  Wendell 
approached  his  bed,  he  added,  "  I  can- 
not stand  this  any  longer.  Make  some 
arrangements  for  me  to  leave  as  soon  as 
Mrs.  Morton  comes  back.  That  will  be 
in  an  hour.  At  any  risk,  at  all  risks, 
I  must  be  carried  to  my  own  home  in 
the  country.  Perhaps  I  did  shoot  him : 
who  the  devil  knows  or  cares  !  "  And  as, 
in  his  annoyance,  his  voice  rose  suffi- 
ciently to  be  heard  by  Gray,  the  latter 
broke  in  anew :  — 

"  Well,  sir,  I  am  glad  you  admit  it. 
And  my  little  girl,  —  who  is  to  take  care 
of  her  ?  I  say,"  he  repeated  sharply, 

1884.]  In  War  Time. 

"  who  is  to  take  care  of  her  ?  Not  this 

"  Oh,  she  will  be  looked  after,"  re- 
sponded Wendell  kindly,  desiring  to 
soothe  the  patient,  whose  diseased  fan- 
cies were  evidently  hurting  both  himself 
and  his  neighbor.  "  Ah,  here  comes  my 
sister !  Ann,  let  me  speak  to  you  a  mo- 
ment ; "  and  so  saying,  he  led  her  out  of 
the  room,  and  explained  to  her  that  Cap- 
tain Gray  was  very  ill  and  delirious, 
and  that  it  would  be  necessary  to  sepa- 
rate him  from  Major  Morton. 

Ann  "Wendell  at  once  reentered  the 
room,  took  her  seat  at  the  bedside,  and 
sat  fanning  the  poor  fellow,  while  her 
brother  left  them  to  attend  to  other 
duties.  Mrs.  Morton  arrived  soon  after  ; 
and  as  Lagrauge  agreed  with  his  sub- 
ordinate that  it  would  now  be  best  to 
move  her  husband,  the  proper  arrange- 
ments were  soon  completed. 

As  the  major  was  being  carried  out 
of  the  room,  he  said,  "  Captain  Gray,  I 
hope  you  will  soon  get  well ;  and  mean- 
while, whatever  we  can  do  for  you  is  at 
your  service." 

"  I  sha'n't  get  well,"  returned  Gray. 
"  I  am  going  to  die,  to  die,  and  my 
death  is  on  your  head !  " 

Morton  made  no  reply. 

"  Don't  mind  him,"  the  young  sur- 
geon whispered  quietly  to  Mrs.  Morton, 
who  had  turned,  with  a  startled  air,  — 
"  don't  mind  him ;  he  is  raving." 

"  Poor  fellow,"  she  murmured  softly. 

"  I  don't  blame  him,"  cried  Gray,  in 
a  high,  shrill  voice,  "  but  he  did  it.  And 
oh,  my  little  one,  my  little  one !  Friend- 
less, friendless ! "  and  he  sank  back, 
faint  and  exhausted,  upon  the  pillow, 
from  which  he  had  risen  with  an  effort 
of  frenzied  strength. 

"  You  won't  forget  to  call  to-night  ?  " 
said  Mrs.  Morton  to  Wendell.  "  What 
a  strange  delusion !  What  a  painful 
scene !  "  Then  the  nurses  carried  her 
husband  out  of  the  room  and  down- 
stairs to  the  ambulance,  while  Ann 
Wendell,  disturbed  and  pitiful,  sat  fan- 


ning  the  fevered  man  who  remained. 
As  she  looked  at  him,  his  face  struck 
her  painfully.  It  was  thin  and  drawn, 
beaded  with  sweat,  and  deeply  flushed. 

"  When  will  my  child  come  ? "  he 

"  To-morrow.  I  have  had  a  tele- 
gram, and  I  will  bring  her  here  at  once. 
Yes,  I  will  bring  her ;  now  don't  talk. 
We  will  take  care  of  her  until  some  of 
her  relatives  are  heard  from,  or  she  can 
return  to  school,  till  you  are  well  and 

"  You  promise  me  ?  " 
.  "  Yes,  I  promise,"  Ann  replied,  hard- 
ly knowing  what  to  say. 

"  And  that  man,  —  he  could  n't  help 
it !  That 's  war,  that 's  war  I  He  shot 
me,  you  know.  He  says  so.  I  saw 
him.  You  won't  let  them  have  my 
child,  will  you,  —  now,  will  you  ?  " 

Ann  had  a  pretty  clear  idea  that 
nothing  was  less  likely  than  that  the 
stately  dame,  who  overawed  her  with 
easy  graciousness,  would  desire  to  as- 
sume charge  of  the  little  waif. 

"  Make  yourself  easy.  God  will  pro- 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know,  of  course ;  but 
you  will  —  take  care  —  yes  —  you 
will  ?  " 

"I  will,"  said  Ann,  hardly  clear  as 
to  what  she  was  pledging  herself  to  do, 
but  feeling  sure  that  she  must  say  yes 
to  whatever  he  asked,  and  that  she  was 
not  given  tune  to  reflect  as  to  what  she 
ought  to  do. 

"All  right,"  moaned  Gray.  "Turn 
this  pillow,  please.  Lord,  how  wretched 
I  feel ! " 

Ann  did  as  he  desired.  She  had  a 
strong  feeling  that  she  ought  to  say 
something  to  relieve  him :  "  You  must 
not  say  Major  Morton  shot  you.  How 
could  you  know  that  ?  You  must  have 
made  him  feel  horribly.  I  would  n't 
say  it  if  I  were  you  ! " 

"  But,"  cried  Gray,  seizing  her  wrist, 
"  I  know  it,  and  before  you  came  he 
said  it !  He  acknowledged  he  shot  me ! 


In  War  Time. 


What  was  that  you  said  about  to-mor- 
row? To-morrow,  and  to-morrow,  and 
to-morrow !  Stop,  excuse  me,  Mistress 
Wendell,  —  I  am  not  at  all  clear  in  my 
head ;  but  let  him  say  what  he  likes,  he 
shot  me !  Remember  that,  he  shot  me ! " 

Miss  Wendell  was  deeply  distressed. 
She  could  not  appreciate  the  state  of 
mental  disturbance  which  possessed  the 
man,  and  to  her  inexperience  it  seemed 
at  once  improbable  and  yet  possible 
that  he  could  have  been  sure  of  the 
hand  which  had  smitten  him.  It  all  left 
her  with  one  of  those  vague  but  lasting 
mental  impressions  which  may  wear 
out  with  time,  or  be  deepened  by  future 
circumstance,  and  which  are,  as  it  were, 
memorial  ghosts  that  trouble  us  despite 
our  unbeliefs  in  their  reality.  For  the 
present  she  put  it  aside ;  but  in  her  sim- 
ple life  it  was  a  great  and  strange  event, 
never  pleasant  to  think  or  talk  of.  She 
stayed  with  Gray  till  it  was  quite  late, 
and  then  went  home  with  her  brother, 
promising  to  return  the  next  afternoon, 
when  she  hoped  to  be  able  to  bring  the 
little  girl. 

The  following  day  she  busied  herself, 
as  usual,  about  the  household  and  among 
the  flowers  in  her  little  garden,  until  the 
hour  came  to  meet  the  train,  which  was, 
little  as  she  then  guessed  it,  to  bring 
into  her  life  new  cares  and  fresh  anxie- 
ties. It  was  close  to  the  late  twilight 
of  summer  when  she  stood  waiting  at 
the  station.  Her  life  had  been,  as  I 
have  said,  simple.  Her  nature  and  her 
creed  alike  taught  her  to  be  eternally 
willing  to  do  for  others  acts  of  kindness  ; 
indeed,  to  be  ever  ready,  for  these  had 
grown  to  be  habitual,  and  excited  in  her 
mind  no  comment  whatsoever ;  so  that 
in  this  sense  virtue  was  its  own  reward, 
in  that  it  made  each  new  act  of  virtue 
easier,  and  so  kept  calm  a  conscience 
which  was  only  too  apt  with  rebuke. 
She  now  stood  silently  watching  the 
crowd  of  soldiers  going  to  the  front,  of 
officers  in  varied  uniforms,  all  the  eager, 
hurried  travel  of  ever  anxious  men  and 

women  moving  southward.  At  last  she 
saw  a  conductor  coming  towards  her, 
and  guessed  at  once  that  the  girl  at  his 
side  was  the  child  for  whom  she  had 

"  I  am  Miss  Wendell,  and  I  am  here 
to  meet  a  child  named  Gray." 

"  Yes,"  the  conductor  replied,  "  that 
is  all  right.  I  was  to  turn  her  over  to 
Miss  Wendell.  Here  is  the  check  for 
her  trunk.  Good-by,  missy !  "  and  so 
saying  he  dropped  the  child's  hand  and 
walked  away.  The  girl  looked  after 
him  with  a  sense  of  desertion,  and  then 
turned  and  faced  Ann  Wendell,  silent 
with  the  shy,  speechless  uneasiness  of 

"  You  are  Hester  Gray  ?  "  said  Miss 

"  Yes,  ma'am.    Where  is  my  father  ?  " 

"  You  shall  see  him  soon,  Come,  my 
dear,  you  must  be  tired ;  we  won't  talk 
now ; "  and  so  having  arranged  for  her 
trunk  to  be  sent  to  Germantown,  Ann 
got  into  a  street  car  with  her  charge, 
and  set  out  for  the  hospital. 

Ann  was  acutely  observant  of  but  one 
person  in  her  small  world,  —  the  broth- 
er whose  life  had  become  one  with  her 
own ;  and  she  therefore  troubled  herself 
but  little  about  the  child  at  her  side, 
save  to  say  now  and  then  a  kind  word, 
or  to  notice  that  the  dress  of  brown  hoi- 
land,  though  clean  and  neat,  showed 
signs  of  over  use. 

The  girl  was  perhaps  fifteen  years 
old,  but  looked  very  childlike  for  her 
age.  She  had  been  sent  four  years  be- 
fore, when  her  mother  died,  to  the 
school  in  New  Jersey,  where,  save  for 
one  brief  visit  from  her  father  before 
the  war  broke  out,  she  had  had  the  us- 
ual school  life  among  a  large  number  of 
girls,  to  whom  was  applied  alike  a  com- 
mon system,  which  admitted  of  no  recog- 
nition of  individualities.  But  this  little 
existence,  now  sent  adrift  from  its  mo- 
notonous colony  of  fellow  polyps  to  float 
away  and  develop  under  novel  circum- 
stances, was  a  very  distinct  and  positive 


In  War  Time. 


individual  being.  She  sat  beside  Ann 
Wendell,  stealing  quick  glances  at  her, 
at  her  fellow  -  passengers,  and  at  the 
houses  and  buildings  they  were  passing ; 
not  reasoning  about  them,  but  simply 
making  up  the  child's  little  treasury  of 
automatically  gathered  memories,  and 
feeling,  without  knowing  that  she  felt  it, 
the  kindliness  and  quiet  incuriousness  of 
the  woman  beside  her.  Then,  seeing  a 
man  drop  a  letter  into  a  postal  box  in 
the  street,  she  suddenly  remembered 
herself,  and  flushing  said,  — 

"  I  have  a  letter  to  give.  If  father 
is  too  sick,  I  am  to  give  it  to  some 

"  I  will  take  it,"  said  Ann,  and  the 
child  presently  extracted  a  letter,  which 
the  careful  schoolmistress  had  pinned 
fast  in  her  pocket.  It  was  addressed  to 
"Charles  Gray,  Esq."  "I  will  take 
care  of  it,  my  little  woman." 

The  child  made  some  vague  reflec- 
tions on  her  being  called  a  little  woman, 
and  the  train  of  thought,  brief  as  are 
always  the  speculations  of  childhood, 
ended  at  the  door  of  the  great  brick 
hospital.  Then  they  walked  through 
the  lounging  crowd  of  invalids  about 
the  portal,  past  the  sentinel,  and  up  the 
stairs,  until  Ann  knocked  softly  at  the 
sick  man's  door.  It  was  opened  by  a 
nurse,  who  said  in  a  low  voice  that  they 
were  to  wait  a  minute,  until  he  sent  for 
the  doctor.  While  they  lingered,  Ann 
heard  the  deep,  snoring  respiration  of  the 
man  within,  and  tightened  her  grasp  on 
the  child's  hand,  knowing  only  too  well 
what  the  sound  meant.  A  moment  later 
Wendell  appeared  with  the  surgeon-in- 
charge.  The  two  men  said  a  few  words 
apart,  and  then  the  elder  took  the  child's 
hand,  and  sitting  down  on  the  staircase 
drew  her  towards  him. 

"  What  is  your  name,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  Hester,  —  Hester  Gray." 

"  How  long  since  you  saw  your  fa- 
ther ?  " 

"  Ever  so  long,  sir.  I  don't  remem- 

"  Well,  you  know  when  people  are 
sick  they  do  not  look  as  they  do  when 
they  are  well,  and  your  father,  Hester, 
is  very  sick  ;  so  if  he  is  too  sick  to  know 
you  are  his  own  little  girl,  you  must  n't 
be  afraid,  will  you  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  I  will  try  not  to  be." 

"  And  don't  cry,"  he  added,  as  he  saw 
the  large  blue  eyes  filling.  Then  he 
took  her  tenderly  by  the  hand,  and  say- 
ing cheerily,  "  Now  come  along ;  we  will 
go  and  see  papa,"  he  led  her  into  the 
room,  followed  by  Ann  and  her  brother. 
When  Ann  saw  the  dying  man's  face, 
she  turned,  and  whispered  to  Wen- 
dell, — 

"  Oh,  I  would  n't  have  done  it  at  all ! 
Why  should  she  see  him  ?  " 

Wendell  made  no  answer.  He  was 
himself  wondering  why  this  tender  little 
life  should  be  forced  into  rude  acquaint- 
ance with  death.  The  surgeon  knew 
better ;  knew  full  well,  with  the  wisdom 
of  many  deaths,  what  a  softened  sweet- 
ness this  grim  memory  would  grow  to 
have,  in  years  to  come,  —  what  a  blank 
in  the  life  of  love  its  absence  might 
come  to  be. 

Charles  Gray  was  lost  even  now  to 
the  world  of  loves  and  hates.  Gaunt 
with  past  suffering,  his  cheeks  flushed 
with  moving  spaces  of  intense  purplish- 
red,  he  lay  on  his  back.  His  eyes,  wide 
open,  stared  up  at  the  ceiling  between 
moveless  lids,  while  the  irregularly  heav- 
ing chest  and  the  dilating  nostrils  told 
of  the  closing  struggle  for  the  breath 
which  is  life.  Ann  wiped  from  his  brow 
the  sweat  which  marks  the  earning  of 
death  as  of  bread,  —  the  sign  of  all 
great  physical  effort,  —  and  said  in  a 
rising  voice,  — 

"  Here  is  Hester,  Captain  Gray ! 
Captain  Gray,  this  is  Hester !  Don't 
you  know  her  ?  Your  Hester." 

He  made  no  sign  in  reply.  Nature 
had  not  waited  for  man  to  supply  her 
anaesthetics,  and  the  disturbed  chemis- 
tries of  failing  life  were  flooding  nerve 
and  brain  with  potent  sedatives. 


In  War  Time. 


"  Too  late  !  "  murmured  Wendell. 

A  slight  convulsion  passed  over  the 
features  of  the  dying  man.  The  child 
looked  up  in  curious  amazement.  Her 
little  life  gave  her  no  true  key  to  the 
sorrow  of  the  scene. 

"  Kiss  him,"  said  Ann  ;  "  speak  to 
him,  Hester.  Perhaps  he  will  know 


The  child  touched  his  forehead,  re- 
coiled a  second  from  the  chill,  sweating 
brow,  and  then  kissed  it  again  and 

"  Speak  to  him,  Hester,  —  try,"  re- 
peated Ann. 

"  Father  —  father  !  "  cried  the  child. 

"A  little  water,"  said  the  surgeon  in 
chief,  knowing  that  to  swallow  some- 
times for  a  moment  awakens  the  slum- 
bering consciousness. 

The  dying  man  struggled  with  the 
spoonful  of  fluid,  then  swallowed  it  ab- 
ruptly, and  moved  his  lips. 

"  Does  he  say  anything  ?  "  said  Wen- 

Ann  bent  down,  and  again  wiped  his 
face.  This  time  he  murmured  some- 
thing, and  Ann  rose  instantly,  with  a 
pale  face. 

"  He  does  n't  know  any  one,"  she  said. 
"  Come,  my  child,  kiss  him  again,  and 
we  will  go  out  for  a  while." 

What  Ann  had  heard  were  broken 
words,  sent  back  to  her  alone  through 
the  closing  doors  which  opened  to  one 
world  and  shut  out  another:  "Shot  — 
shot  —  he  shot  me  !  " 

"  Come,"  she  repeated  to  the  dazed 
and  trembling  girl,  "  the  surgeons  must 
be  with  him  alone,  dear." 

Hester  obeyed  without  a  word,  cry- 
ing, she  hardly  knew  why  ;  for  tears  are 
the  large  resource  of  nature  in  most  of 
the  incidents  that  startle  or  perplex  the 
emotional  years  of  childhood ;  and  to  be 
truthful,  there  was  more  of  terror  than 
of  grief  in  the  scene  for  a  child  to 
whom  years  of  absence  and  silence  had 
made  all  memories  of  home  and  father 
somewhat  hazy  and  indistinct. 

"  I  will  take  her  away  with  me  at 
once,"  said  Ann  to  Dr.  Lagrange.  "  It 
will  be  no  good  for  her  to  see  him 

"  You  will  do  the  kindest  thing  for  her, 
I  think,"  he  answered ;  and  with  this, 
hand  in  hand  with  the  child,  who  pressed 
close  to  her  side,  Ann  went  out  into  the 
street,  thoughtful  and  dismayed.  She 
had  seen  hundreds  of  wounded  men,  in 
her  constant  hospital  visits,  but  no  one 
knew  who  had  hurt  them ;  so  that  in 
her  eyes  this  single  definite  fact  of  in- 
dividual war  seemed  like  murder.  The 
whole  matter  of  war,  indeed,  was  horri- 
ble to  Ann.  She  somehow  saw  God  in 
its  larger  results,  but  not  in  its  trage- 
dies. How  could  God  mean  one  man 
to  slay  another  !  There,  it  is  true,  were 
the  Amalekites  and  the  Jebusites ;  but 
as  to  them,  the  command  to  destroy  had 
been  sufficiently  distinct.  Still,  this  pres- 
ent war  was  a  just  war,  in  Ann's  eyes, 
and  her  brother  had  no  doubts  at  all, 
which  was  sometimes  a  comfort  to  her, 
and  would  have  been  a  larger  one  had 
Wendell  shared  her  own  religious  creed, 
which  he  certainly  did  not,  being  vague- 
ly inclined  at  times  to  a  half  acceptance 
of  the  mysticism  of  Swedenborg.  His 
belief  in  the  competency  of  his  own  in- 
tellect made  it  necessary  for  him  to  pos- 
sess some  views  on  matters  of  religious 
beliefs,  but  so  far  he  had  never  got  much 
beyond  the  easy  goal  of  destructive  criti- 

When  the  two  doctors  began  to  de- 
scend the  stairs  from  the  dying  man's 
room,  the  elder  said,  "Mrs.  Morton  has 
written  to  me  to  say  that  she  will  be 
glad  to  meet  any  expense  you  may  be 
put  to  about  this  child." 

"  She  is  a  kind  and  generous  woman, 
I  should  think,"  replied  Wendell. 

"  Well,  yes,  in  a  cool,  quiet  way  she 
is.  I  like  her  myself,  and  you  will  find, 
if  you  don't  cross  her  views,  that  she 
will  be  a  good  friend.  But  that  is  her 
trouble.  She  respects  none  but  manly, 
resolute  men,  and  yet  she  dearly  loves 


A  Trio  for  Twelfth-Night. 


her  own  way.  Money  is  a  very  little 
thing  to  her,  and  to  Morton  also.  What 
a  rapid  case  of  pyaemia !  I  wish  one 
understood  it  better,  or  that  somebody 
could  take  it  up  and  work  at  it.  We 
have  plenty  of  material.  Why  could 
not  you  try  your  hand  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  thinking  of  it,"  said 

In  fact,  he  was  always  planning  some 
valuable  research,  but  was  never  ener- 
getic enough  to  overcome  the  incessant 
obstacles  which  make  research  so  diffi- 

"  We  will  talk  it  over,"  said  Dr.  La- 
grange.  "  What  do  you  think  of  Jones, 
in  Number  Five  ?  He  seems  to  me  a 
malingerer,  and  a  poor  actor  at  that." 

And  so  the  talk  went  from  the  fre- 
quent tragedy  of  death  to-its  causes,  and 
thence  to  the  hospital  work  and  disci- 
pline ;  the  scamps  who  were  feigning 
illness ;  and  who  were  well  enough  to  go 

to  the  front,  who  must  be  discharged, 
who  be  turned  over  to  the  provost  mar- 

The  contrasts  in  a  doctor's  life  are 
always  striking,  and  were  never  more 
so  than  in  the  splendid  and  terrible 
years  of  our  great  war,  which  added  a 
long  list  of  novel  duties  and  a  training 
foreign  to  his  ordinary  existence.  These 
two  men,  coming  from  the  every-day  ca- 
lamity of  a  death-bed,  instantly  set  aside 
the  emotions  and  impressions,  which  no 
repetition  ever  quite  destroys  for  the 
most  callous  doctor,  and  began  to  discuss 
the  scientific  aspects  of  the  disease  with 
which  they  had  been  so  vainly  battling. 
They  both  felt  more  or  less  the  sense  of 
defeat  which  waits  for  the  physician  as 
he  leaves  the  room  of  the  dying,  —  a 
keener  discomfort  than  the  unthinking 
public  can  well  imagine  ;  but  both  were 
able  to  lose  it  in  their  interest  in  that 
which  caused  it. 

£  Weir  Mitchell. 


WHO  first  brought  man  the  morning  dream 
Of  a  world's  hero?     Whence  the  gleam 
Which  grew  to  glory  full  and  sweet 
As  the  wide  wealth  of  waving  wheat 

Springs  from  one  grain  of  corn? 
What  drew  the  spirits  of  earth's  gray  prime 
To  lean  out  frotn  their  tower  of  time 
Toward  the  small  sound  of  Hope's  far  chime 

Heard  betwixt  night  and  morn  ? 

First  it  was  sung  by  heaven;  then  scrolled 
By  the  scribe-stars  on  leaves  of  gold 
In  that  long-buried  book  of  Seth, 
Which  slept  a  secret  deep  as  death, 

Unknown  to  men  forlorn, 
Till  a  seer  touched  a  jasper  lid 
In  a  sand-sunken  pyramid, 
And  out  the  oracular  secret  slid, 

Betwixt  the  night  and  morn. 

166  A  Trio  for  Twelfth-Night.  [February, 

Zarathustra,  Bactria's  king,  next  said, 
"  When  in  the  sky's  blue  garden-bed 
A  lily-petaled  star  shall  fold 
A  human  shape,  the  gift  foretold 

Shall  blossom  and  be  born  : 
Then  shall  the  world-tides  flow  reversed, 
New  gods  shall  rise,  the  last  be  first, 
And  the  best  come  from  out  the  worst, 

As  night  gives  birth  to  morn." 


So  while  the  drowsed  earth  swooned  and  slept 
Mute  holy  men  their  vigils  kept, 
By  twelve  and  twelve :  as  light  decayed, 
They  marked  through  evening's  rosy  shade 

The  curled  moon's  coming  horn, 
All  stars  that  fed  in  silent  flock, 
And  each  tossed  meteor's  back-blown  lock. 
So  watched  they  from  their  wind-swept  rock, 

Betwixt  the  night  and  morn. 

Slow  centuries  passed  ;  at  last  there  came 
By  night  a  dawn  of  silver  flame, 
"Whose  flower-like  heart  grew  white  and  round 
To  a  smooth,  perfect  pearl,  with  sound 

Of  music  planet^born, 
In  whose  clear  disk  a  fair  child  lay, 
And  "  Follow  me  "  was  heard  to  say : 
Round  him  the  pale  stars  fled  away 

As  night  before  the  morn. 

Forthwith  from  morning's  crimson  gate 
The  Three  Kings  rode  in  morning  state 
Across  Ulai's  storied  stream, 
With  westward  wistful  eyes  agleam, 

As  pilgrims  westward  borae, 
They  left  the  tide  to  sing  old  deeds, 
The  stork  to  plash  half-hid  in  reeds : 
A  thousand  spears,  a  thousand  steeds, 

They  rode  'twixt  night  and  morn. 


Melchior  had  coat  and  shoes  of  red, 
And  a  pure  alb  sewn  with  gold  thread; 
Beneath  a  tire  of  Syrian  mode 
Streamed  the  soft  storm  of  hair  that  snowed 

From  cheek  and  chin  unshorn  ; 
Down  to  the  ground  his  saffron  pall 
Fell  as  warm  sunbeams  earthward  fall, 
And  he,  sun-like,  seemed  king  of  all, 

Betwixt  the  night  and  morn. 

1884.]  A  Trio  for  Twelfth-NlgU.  167 

Red-robed,  red-sandaled,  golden-clad, 
Came  Gaspar,  beardless  as  a  lad  : 
Through  his  fair  hair's  divided  stream 
His  red  cheeks  glowed  as  poppies  gleam 

Through  sheaves  of  yellow  corn. 
Love's  life  iu  him  was  scarce  fulfilled, 
Like  as  when  daybreak  shadows  yield 
Night's  iron  lids  lie  half  unsealed 

In  colors  of  the  morn. 

Bronzed  Balthasar,  with  beard  thick-fed, 
Came  last,  in  tunic  royal  red 
And  broidered  alb  and  yellow  shoon. 
With  him  life's  rose  had  touched  its  noon, 

And  died  and  left  the  thorn,  — 
Which  proved  by  its  sharp,  thrilling  heat 
That  larger  life  is  less  complete 
Till  the  heart's  bitter  grows  to  sweet, 

As  night  melts  into  morn. 


Said  Melchior,  "  In  blue  silk  I  fold 
The  rock's  best  fruit,  red-hearted  gold: 
So  grant  us,  mighty  Mother  East, 
One  who  shall  raise  thy  power  decreased, 

And  break  Rome's  pride  and  scorn, 
Till  our  red,  wine-warm  world  hath  sent 
Its  breath  through  the  cold  West,  and  blent 
The  Orient  with  the  Occident 

In  one  wide  sea  of  morn." 

Said  Gaspar,  "  I  bring  frankincense 
From  Caraman's  hills,  whose  thickets  dense 
Hide  the  balm-bleeding  bark  which  feeds 
The  fuming  shrine  with  fragrant  seeds : 

So  may  this  child,  when  born, 
Be  Love's  high  Lord,  and  yield  his  love 
As  incense,  and  draw  down  the  Dove 
To  crown  his  brows  in  sign  thereof, 

Betwixt  the  night  and  morn." 

Said  Balthasar,  "  And  I  bring  myrrh, 

In  death  and  life  man's  minister  ; 

Which  braves  decay  as  burial-balm,  ^ 

Or,  mixed  with  wine,  brings  the  deep  calm 

Which  power  and  love  both  scorn  : 
Such  be  this  child,  —  God's  answering  breath 
To  the  one  prayer  the  whole  world  saith, 
'  Oh,  grant  us  myrrh  for  pain  and  death, 
Betwixt  our  night  and  morn.' " 

168  A  Trio  for  Twelfth-Night.  [February, 


Twice  fifty  sennights  o'er  them  bent 
The  fierce  blue  weight  of  firmament. 
Through  sea-like  sands  they  still  pursued 
The  unsetting  star,  until  it  stood 

Above  where,  travail-worn, 
A  new-made  mother  smiled,  whose  head 
Lay  near  the  stalled  ox,  as  she  fed 
Her  babe  from  her  warm  heart,  on  bed 

Of  straw,  'twixt  night  and  morn. 

As  day  new-sprung  from  drooping  day, 
Near  her  in  shrining  light  he  lay, 
And  made  the  darkness  beautiful. 
Couched  on  low  straw  and  flakes  of  wool 

From  Bethlehem's  lambs  late-shorn, 
He  seemed  a  star  which  clouds  enfold, 
Swathed  with  soft  fire  and  aureoled 
With  sun-born  beams  of  tender  gold, 

The  very  star  of  morn. 

At  her  son's  feet  the  kingly  Three 
Laid,  with  bowed  head  and  bended  knee, 
Their  gold  and  frankincense  and  myrrh, 
Nor  tarried,  —  so  the  interpreter 

Of  God's  dream  once  did  warn, — 
But  hied  them  home  ere  the  day  broke; 
While  without  awe  the  neighbor  folk 
Flocked  to  the  door,  and  looked  and  spoke, 

Betwixt  the  night  and  morn. 


A  tall  centurion  first  drew  near, 
Brass-booted,  on  whose  crest  sat  Fear. 
He  bent  low  to  the  fragrant  bed, 
With  beard  coal-black  and  cheek  rust-red, 

And  each  palm  hard  as  horn; 
Quoth  he,  "  Our  old  gods'  empire  shakes, 
Mehercule  !     Now  this  babe  o'ertakes 
All  that  our  Venus-Mother  makes 

Betwixt  the  night  and  morn." 

A  shepherd  spake :   "  Behold  the  Lamb, 
Who  ere  he  reign  as  heaven's  I  AM 
^    Must  undergo  and  overcome, 

As  sheep  before  the  shearers  dumb, 

Unfriended,  faint,  forlorn. 
Him  then  as  King  the  skies  shall  greet, 
And  with  strewn  stars  beneath  his  feet 
This  Lamb  shall  couch  in  God's  gold  seat, 

And  rule  from  night  to  morn." 

1884.]  A  Trio  for  Twelfth-Night.  169 

A  woman  of  the  city  came, 
Who  said,  "In  me  hope  conquers  shame. 
Four  names  in  this  child's  line  shall  be 
As  signs  to  all  who  love  like  me, — 

God  pities  where  men  scorn  : 
Dame  Rahab,  Bathshebah,  forsooth, 
Tamar,  whose  love  outloved  man's  truth, 
And  she  cast  out,  sweet  alien  Ruth, 

Betwixt  the  night  and  morn." 


Next  Joseph,  spouse  of  Mary,  came, — 
Joseph  Bar-Panther  was  his  name,  — 
Who  said,  "  This  babe,  Lord  God,  is  thine 
Only  begotten  Son  divine, 

As  thou  didst  me  forewarn  ; 
And  I  will  stand  beside  his  throne, 
And  all  the  lands  shall  be  his  own 
Which  the  sun  girds  with  burning  zone, 

And  leads  from  night  to  morn." 

Said  Zacharias,  "  Love  and  will 
With  God  make  all  things  possible. 
Shall  God  be  childless  ?     God  unwed  ? 
Nay ;  see  God's  first-born  in  this  bed 

Which  kings  with  gifts  adorn. 
I  would  this  babe  might  be  at  least 
As  I,  an  incense-burning  priest, 
Till  all  man's  incense-fires  have  ceased, 

Betwixt  the  night  and  morn." 

Whereat  his  wife  Elisabeth: 
"My  thoughts  are  on  the  myrrh,  since  death 
Shades  my  sere  cheek,  which,  as  a  shore, 
Is  wrought  with  wrinkles  o'er  and  o'er. 

Now  be  this  child  new-born 
A  prophet,  like  my  prophet-boy,  — 
A  voice  to  shake  down  and  destroy 
Throne,  shrine,  each  carved  and  painted  toy, 

Betwixt  the  night  and  morn." 

But  Mary,  God's  pure  lily,  smiled : 
"  Lord,  with  thy  manhood  crown  my  child,  — 
More  man,  more  God ;   for  they  who  shine 
Most  human  shall  be  most  divine. 

Of  those  I  think  no  scorn, 
King,  prophet,  priest,  when  worlds  began ; 
But  higher  than  these  my  prayer  and  plan: 
Oh,  make  my  child  the  Perfect  Man, 

The  Star  'twixt  night  and  morn." 
VOL.  LIII.  —  NO.  316.  12  H.  Bernard  Carpenter. 


Voices  of  Power. 



To  every  one  who  considers  the  mat- 
ter, it  must  be  evident  that  the  voices 
of  power  are  numerous.  The  novelist, 
the  essayist,  the  critic,  the  orator,  the 
singer,  the  poet,  the  merchant,  the  finan- 
cier, has  each  his  organ.  But  there  are 
some  sources  of  influence  which  all  ac- 
knowledge, partly  because  they  are  es- 
tablished, partly  because  they  are  prom- 
inent, partly  because  they  are  universally 
popular.  One  or  two  of  these  will  here 
be  touched  on.  There  is  a  current  im- 
pression that  the  days  of  pulpit  influence 
are  numbered  ;  that  preaching  is  out  of 
date  ;  that  the  Sunday  orator  has  had  his 
time,  —  a  most  important  and  influential 
time,  it  is  admitted,  but  still  a  period 
that  is  ended,  to  be  succeeded  in  the 
future  by  a  new  dispensation,  in  which 
the  spoken  word  will  be  less  and  less 
indispensable  to  human  needs.  It  is  the 
fashion  in  some  quarters  to  speak  of 
pulpit  oratory  in  terms  of  criticism,  dis- 
respect, and  even  of  disbelief,  as  of  out- 
grown machinery.  We  are  told  of  the 
small  number  of  churches  as  compared 
with  the  population  of  the  cities,  of  the 
relatively  thin  attendance,  of  the  listless 
audiences,  of  the  lowered  standard  of  re- 
finement on  the  part  of  hearers,  of  the 
diminished  spiritual  force  of  speakers, 
of  the  declining  tendency  to  confess 
authority  in  doctrinal  affairs  ;  and  the  in- 
timation is  freely  given  out  —  supported 
sometimes  by  argument,  sometimes  by 
facts,  not  seldom  by  sarcasm  —  that  the 
whistling  of  idle  wind  and  the  creaking 
of  officious  pulleys  have  taken  the  place 
of  the  once  trumpet-toned  gospel. 

For  this  belief  there  are  good  reasons, 
—  better  than  can  be  expressed  in  the 
form  of  statistics.  It  is  very  true  that 
other  agencies  have  to  a  great  extent 
supplanted  the  pulpit  and  taken  away  a 
large  portion  of  its  ancient  office.  The 
preacher  is  no  longer  the  educated  man 

of  the  community,  the  instructor  in  sci- 
ence, philosophy,  literature.  lie  is  not, 
of  necessity,  the  best  scholar,  the  most 
accomplished  writer,  the  deepest  thinker, 
the  most  persuasive  speaker.  He  has 
no  longer  the  whole  advantage  of  aca- 
demic training.  In  a  period  quite  with- 
in the  recollection  of  living  men  there 
were  few  books,  no  magazines  or  cheap 
papers.  Public  libraries  were  almost 
unknown,  —  wholly  inaccessible  to  the 
multitude.  There  was  scarcely  any  lit- 
erature, or  wide-spread  knowledge.  The 
clergyman's  collection  of  printed  vol- 
umes was  mainly  theological.  He  alone 
propounded  questions,  and  gave  answers 
to  them.  He  alone  was  acquainted  with 
prevalent  thoughts.  Learning  was  ex- 
pensive, and  hard  to  get  outside  of  great 
universities,  where  the  minister  was  ed- 
ucated. The  day  is  not  so  very  far  dis- 
tant in  the  past  when  it  was  a  matter 
of  personal  distinction  as  well  as  of  pro- 
fessional necessity  to  accumulate  wis- 
dom. Clergymen  were  thus  educated  to 
speak,  — the  only  people  who  were  well 
qualified  to  express  an  opinion,  not  on 
subjects  of  religion  only,  but  on  topics 
of  society  and  politics  as  well.  They 
were  the  oracles  of  the  period,  the  ed- 
ucated and  richly  furnished  minds,  the 
possessors  of  the  science  and  sagacity  of 
their  age.  That  period  is  ended.  Books 
of  every  description  are  multiplied ;  mag- 
azines are  cheap ;  newspapers  are  pub- 
lished by  the  myriad ;  people  read  as 
they  run  ;  information,  knowledge,  in- 
tellectual stimulus,  may  be  had  in  large 
measure  outside  of  churches,  —  more 
readily  outside  than  inside. 

Moreover,  there  is  the  institution  of 
the  popular  lecturer.  Here  is  a  speaker 
who  travels  over  the  country,  drawing 
audiences  from  all  classes,  dealing  with 
secular  themes,  arid  mingling  wit  with 
wisdom  according  to  ability.  He  does 


Voices  of  Power. 


not  appeal  to  authority  ;  he  does  not  re- 
sort to  tradition.  He  aims  at  instruc- 
tion ;  but  his  chief  object  is  entertain- 
ment, and  the  combination  is  found  attrac- 
tive to  the  commou  ear.  The  favorite 
lecturer  is,  in  many  instances,  a  preach- 
er, who  lays  by  the  solemnity  of  the 
pulpit  manner,  and  thus  helps  to  under- 
mine his  profession  while  seeming  to 
extend  its  influence :  for  the  arts  by 
which  he  attracts  and  holds  his  auditors 
are  thoroughly  popular ;  he  addresses 
the  average  intelligence,  and  he  assumes 
as  the  ultimate  criterion  of  excellence 
the  common  reason.  When  the  lecturer 
is  not  a  clergyman,  he  is  a  lay  preacher  ; 
and  if  he  is  an  eloquent  man,  as  he  often 
is,  his  platform  takes  precedence  of  the 
pulpit,  his  words  are  -listened  to  with 
delight,  and  his  method  gradually  affects 
the  treatment  of  religious  themes,  until 
the  very  essence  of  religious  thought 
is  qualified,  and  the  sermon  is  deprived 
of  its  peculiar  character.  In  a  word,  it 
ceases  to  be  a  sermon,  and  becomes  an. 

There  is  a  substantial  difference  be- 
tween the  two  modes  of  speech.  It  must 
not  be  forgotten  that,  under  one  or  an- 
other form,  the  preacher  assumes  the 
fact  of  divine  revelation  either  as  truth 
directly  imparted,  or  as  a  spiritual  in- 
stinct, or  as  a  philosophy  of  intuition 
that  pledges  the  recipient  to  certain  car- 
dinal beliefs  of  the  soul.  But  criticism 
throws  doubt  on  the  existence  of  out- 
ward communications  of  knowledge, 

O     ' 

philosophy  discredits  intuitive  presenti- 
ments, and  skepticism  cavils  at  the  no- 
tion of  an  implanted  instinct.  The  age 
resents  dictation,  in  an  era  of  magazines 
and  newspapers  and  journals  and  re- 
ports, of  conventions,  meetings,  and  dis- 
cussions. When  men  come  face  to  face 
with  each  other,  and  talk  things  over 
on  rational  principles ;  requiring  knowl- 
edge ;  demanding  that  problems  shall  be 
considered  on  their  merits,  that  speech 
shall  be  frank  and  precise,  that  mystery 
shall  be  discarded,  and  dogmatism  con- 

demned, and  preaching  set  at  naught, 
and  feeling  subordinated  to  argument, 
there  is  impatience  of  pretension,  rest- 
iveness  under  authority,  a  disposition  to 
break  away  from  tradition.  The  preach- 
er relies  on  formulated  ideas  ;  he  claims 
to  speak  the  absolute  truth,  to  bring  a 
message  from  the  Holy  Spirit.  The  as- 
sumption is  now  somewhat  attenuated, 
but  it  is  very  old  The  Hebrew  prophet, 
who  better  than  any  other  corresponds 
to  the  modern  preacher,  arrogated  to 
himself  the  right  to  speak  in  the  name 
of  Jehovah.  He  was  the  Lord's  repre- 
sentative. He  disclaimed  all  ability  of 
his  own,  made  himself  of  no  reputation, 
claimed  no  private  wisdom  or  virtue, 
called  himself  a  servant,  and  was  ac- 
cepted accordingly.  Jesus  gave  voice 
to  the  best  anticipations  of  his  race. 
The  promise  made  to  Abraham  was  the 
message  that  dropped  graciously  from 
his  lips.  The  proclamation  of  the  king- 
dom of  heaven  was  the  ancient  announce- 
ment of  the  Messianic  reign.  It  was 
not  he  who  founded  the  heavenly  dis- 
pensation on  any  authority  of  his  own. 
He  spoke  for  his  Father.  Paul  planted 
his  feet  on  the  rock  of  the  old  covenant. 
The  Church  of  Rome  regarded  the  Pope 
as  the  Lord's  vicegerent,  the  source  of 
all  spiritual  illumination,  from  whom 
power  descended  to  the  inferior  priest- 
hood. In  the  Protestant  churches  the 
preacher  was  the  leading  figure,  and 
whenever  he  felt  the  presence  of  a  holier 
spirit  behind  him  than  had  visited  his 
predecessors,  a  fresh  inspiration  from 
the  incarnate  Word,  his  heart  was  aflame 
with  the  Holy  Ghost.  The  modern 
preacher  goes  through  certain  prescribed 
courses  of  study  in  a  "  school  of  the 
prophets."  He  takes  his  diploma  from 
the  constituted  authorities.  He  is  or- 
dained by  the  solemn  laying  on  of 
hands.  He  is  set  apart  for  a  peculiar 
work.  He  is  consecrated  a  servant  or 
minister  of  the  Highest.  Henceforth  he 
speaks  words  that  are  put  into  his 
mouth.  He  does  not  argue  ;  he  an- 


Voices  of  Power. 


nounces,  declares,  affirms.  There  are  cer- 
tain truths  he  takes  for  granted,  certain 
things  he  knows  without  experiment. 
If  he  chooses  to  utter  his  thought  on 
any  secular  subject,  he  does  not  put 
himself  exactly  on  a  level  with  common 
reasoners.  One  will  hardly  take  up  a 
pamphlet  written  by  a  clergyman  with- 
out encountering  this  peculiarity.  The 
man  is  a  dogmatist  on  principle.  lie 
cannot  be  anything  else.  Dogmatism 
belongs  to  the  profession.  It  is  fortu- 
nate for  him  if  it  does  not  eat  into  his 

The  skepticism  of  this  generation  is 
of  a  character  to  bear  directly  on  the 
existence  of  the  pulpit.  It  is  rather 
a  matter  of  temperament  than  of  judg- 
ment. It  affects  conduct  more  than 
opinion,  being  not  so  much  a  settled 
form  of  reasoned  unbelief  as  a  practical 
disinclination  to  turn  the  thoughts  in  an 
ecclesiastical  direction.  The  element  of 
"  common  sense "  is  larger  in  it  than 
the  element  of  knowledge.  It  touches 
the  more  cultivated  and  the  more  in- 
tellectually occupied  classes.  Literary 
men,  as  a  rule,  do  not  go  to  church. 
They  prefer  to  stay  at  home,  and  read 
or  write ;  naturally  finding  more  pleas- 
ure in  books  that  engage  them  than  in 
sermons  that  do  not.  The  men  of  sci- 
ence employ  the  quiet  Sunday  hours  in 
making  researches  in  their  several  de- 
partments. The  time-  is  especially  fa- 
vorable to  the  nicer  experiments  of  the 
new  physiology.  The  philosophical  stu- 
dent pursues  his  studies,  uninterrupted 
by  duties  or  by  visitors.  When  class- 
rooms are  closed  and  offices  are  shut, 
then  is  his  hour  for  close  examination. 
Then  he  can  be  alone,  can  read  his  fa- 
vorite authors,  can  enlarge  his  mind. 
It  is  his  day  of  recreation  and  of  rest. 

Again,  the  comic  disposition  of  an 
age  fond  of  entertainment,  amusement, 
laughter,  disliking  grave  thoughts  and 
averse  to  meditation,  is  not  attracted  to 
pulpit  discussions.  The  words  "  duty," 
"  immortality,"  "  death,"  "  responsibil- 

ity," are  unwelcome  to  popular  ears. 
Say  what  one  will,  the  minister's  themes 
are  necessarily  serious.  He  speaks  in 
the  name  of  religion.  He  represents 
the  soul.  His  speech  drops  down  from 
the  higher  atmosphere  of  spiritual 
thought.  He  has  nothing  for  sportive 
hearers.  It  is  not  his  business  to  tickle 
idle  ears.  He  is  not  a  jester,  a  buf- 
foon, a  clown,  or  a  merry-Andrew.  He 
is  unwilling  to  make  people  laugh ; 
he  rarely  induces  them  to  smile.  It  is 
his  office  to  open  the  fountain  of  tears 
in  their  hearts,  to  stir  their  consciences, 
to  awaken  their  souls,  to  rouse  their 
sympathies.  He  speaks  of  brotherhood, 
charity,  accountability  ;  the  wisdom  of 
restraining  passion,  and  curbing  desire, 
and  keeping  the  higher  life  in  view. 
There  are  things  that  look  unseemly  in 
the  presence  of  the  eternal  law,  and 
such  things  he  must  condemn.  There  is 
a  mirthfulness,  innocent  —  nay,  positive- 
ly wholesome  —  elsewhere,  that  sinks 
into  silence  when  the  awful,  invisible 
Form  comes  out  of  the  shadow.  That 
form  the  preacher  never  can  forget.  He 
would  be  untrue  to  himself  if  he  lost  re- 
membrance of  it  for  a  moment.  What- 
ever theme  he  deals  with,  the  low  mur- 
mur of  the  everlasting  flood  is  ever  in 
his  ears,  and  resounds  through  his  lan- 
guage, imparting  a  deep  solemnity  to 
his  utterance.  He  may  be  tempted  to 
indulge  his  humor  or  wit,  if  he  has  any, 
but  he  yields  as  to  a  temptation,  regret- 
fully, half  remorsefully,  fearing  lest  some- 
thing may  be  taken  from  the  edge  of  his 
appeal.  Even  when  his  theme  is  neither 
theological  nor  technically  religious,  he 
is  true  to  his  calling  as  a  minister  of 
righteousness.  The  liberal  preacher,  so 
called,  is  no  less  austere  than  his  Calvin- 
istic  neighbor  ;  rather  more  so,  if  any- 
thing, as  feeling  the  importance  of  cor- 
recting a  certain  latitude  of  speculation 
which  his  "  orthodox  "  friend  is  not 
aware  of. 

But  if  all  this  be  true,  —  and  true  in 
a  great  measure  it  may  well  be,  —  why 


Voices  of  Power. 


is  it,  one  may  ask,  that  the  pulpit  has 
not  fallen  more  completely  iuto  disre- 
pute ?  Why  is  the  institution  support- 
ed ?  Why  are  preachers  listened  to  ? 
Why  do  crowds  gather  every  Sunday  to 
hear  what  earnest,  believing  men  have 
to  say  ?  For  it  is  a  fact  that  preaching 
has  not  yet  sunk  into  utter  discredit. 
The  churches  are  not  deserted.  On  the 
contrary,  I  am  inclined  to  think  that, 
all  things  being  taken  into  account,  more 
people  in  proportion  "  go  to  meeting  " 
— go  intelligently,  earnestly,  sympathet- 
ically, expectantly  —  than  ever  went 
before.  My  impression  is  that  there  is 
more  live  mind  in  the  churches  to-day 
than  there  ever  was.  Buildings  are 
larger,  congregations  are  more  numer- 
ous, the  word  is  listened  to  more  eager- 
ly. If  an  able  man  has  anything  to  say 
from  the  pulpit,  an  audience  is  ready 
for  him;  and  the  more  authoritatively 
he  speaks,  the  better  they  like  it.  The 
ancient  faithis  alive.  The  old  way  of 
presenting  it  is  not  obsolete.  Skepticism 
does  not  appear  to  have  penetrated  the 
heart  of  the  multitude.  As  the  world 
grows  larger,  the  number  increases  of 
those  who  frequent  the  sanctuary,  as 
well  as  of  those  who  stay  away. 

To  say  nothing  of  the  occasions  which 
come  to  all  alike,  —  hours  of  sorrow,  of 
disappointment,  of  defeat,  —  that  every- 
body meets  and  must  surmount ;  of  the 
craving  to  hear  a  word  of  solace,  en- 
couragement, instruction,  to  enlarge  the 
horizon  of  experience,  to  obtain  a  wider 
prospect  of  life  ;  to  say  nothing  of  death, 
that  awful,  mysterious  certainty,  so  uni- 
versal in  its  sway,  so  uncertain  in  its 
issues,  or  of  conscience,  whose  voice  is 
heard  in  every  breast,  the  themes  of  the 
pulpit  possess  an  inexhaustible  fascina- 
tion for  the  majority  of  mankind.  The 
preacher's  cardinal  topics  are  irresistibly 
interesting.  There  are  grave  questions 
which  nobody  can  answer,  yet  which 
everybody  asks,  —  questions  that  the 
preacher  alone  pretends  to  deal  with, 
that  none  but  a  thinker  attempts  to 

grasp,  but  that  force  themselves  on  the 
unthinking  mind.  To  know  what  an- 
swers have  been  given  is  a  good  deal ; 
to  be  sure  that  there  is  no  final  answer  is 
something.  The  most  light-hearted,  even 
frivolous  people,  at  some  moments  in 
their  lives,  are  brought  face  to  face  with 
problems  so  awful  that  only  earnest 
minds  should  confront  them,  and  they, 
for  the  most  part,  are  consecrated  pro- 
fessionally to  the  task.  The  preacher 
has  been  educated  to  consider  such  prob- 
lems ;  he  spends  his  life  in  endeavors  to 
solve  them ;  he  has  arrived  at  a  certain 
degree  of  conviction ;  he  has  won  popu- 
lar confidence  by  the  devotedness  of  his 
ministry  and  the  elevation  of  his  life. 
He  is  usually  noble,  simple-hearted, 
honest,  true  of  intention,  single  of  pur- 
pose, disinterested,  and  sympathetic. 
He  lives  in  contemplation.  He  is  an 
idealist.  If  he  is  a  man  of  traditions, 
the  traditions  he  holds  by  are  humane  ; 
they  embody  the  treasured  wisdom  of 
the  race.  Those  who  resort  to  him  are 
pretty  sure  to  get  all  that  is  known. 
The  purely  sensational  preacher  is  rare 
in  any  community.  There  are  not 
many  men  in  the  pulpit,  if  there  are 
any,  who  study  immediate  effect  more 
than  truth.  There  may,  here  and  there, 
be  one  man  of  remarkable  humor,  who 
is  tempted  occasionally  to  present  ideas 
in  a  mirthful  light ;  but  this  is  incidental 
to  his  temperament,  not  radical  in  his 
ministration.  His  aim  is  heavenward, 
though  he  may  frequently  provoke  a 
smile.  Theodore  Parker  used  to  say 
that  if  he  were  to  give  expression  to  all 
the  funny  thoughts  that  occurred  to 
him,  his  hall  would  resound  with  laugh- 
ter. Fanciful  images  thronged  his  mind  ; 
yet  nobody  doubted  Parker's  earnest- 
ness of  purpose,  or  questioned  the^  abso- 
lute sincerity  of  his  nature.  Most  peo- 
ple imagined  that  he  was  somewhat  un- 
compromising, even  grim.  A  prevailing 
passion  for  truth  is  all  that  can  be  asked 
for.  Great  genius,  the  gift  of  insight, 
of  divination,  of  prophecy,  of  eloquent 


Voices  of  Power. 


speech,  are  not  to  be  expected.  The 
saintly  disposition  is  given  to  few.  But 
the  power  of  personal  character  is  not 
uncommon,  simplicity  of  intention,  pu- 
rity of  mind.  Character  is  very  dif- 
ferent from  genius,  accomplishment,  or 
talent  in  particular  directions.  It  is 
the  force  of  the  unseen  world  flowing 
through  the  soul.  There  is  much  in  the 
fact  that  the  minister  belongs  to  no 
class  of  men  ;  that  he  is  neither  aristo- 
crat nor  democrat,  rich  nor  poor,  old  nor 
young ;  that  he  is  simply  human ;  that 
he  meets  all  men  on  the  same  terms  ; 
that  all  doors  are  open  to  him ;  that 
all  domestic  secrets  are  disclosed.  The 
family  physician  is  the  only  person  who 
has  anything  like  the  same  universality 
of  influence,  anything  approaching  an 
equal  range  of  sympathy.  No  other 
man  in  society  pretends  to  it. 

When  to  this  is  added  the  quality 
of  personality  so  generally  felt  in  the 
preacher,  who  takes  into  himself  the 
burden  of  so  much  experience,  the  im- 
portance of  the  pulpit  is  not  surpris- 
ing. The  pulpit  should  be  a  mount  of 
vision.  A  living  soul  utters  oracles  there. 
One  hears  a  voice,  sees  a  form,  gazes  on 
an  expressive  countenance.  The  lecturer 
has  a  portion  of  the  same  advantage,  but 
he  is  not  charged  with  so  mysterious  a 
theme,  nor  does  he  touch  people  at  so 
many  points.  In  fact,  he  does  not  reach 
the  same  people  year  after  year,  as  the 
preacher  does,  and  he  never  addresses 
the  spiritual  mind.  The  audience  brings 
ears,  seldom  hearts,  to  the  lyceum.  It 
comes  in  the  mood  of  admiration,  not 
in  the  mood  of  worship.  Mr.  Emerson 
made  the  platform  an  altar,  drawing 
down  fire  from  heaven  upon  sticks  of 
wood  ;  but  he  was  alone.  The  most 
persuasive  lecturer  does  well  if  now  and 
then  he  can  ascend  from  low  themes  to 
lofty  contemplations.  The  personality 
of  the  lecturer  may  be  called  magnetic, 
in  the  absence  of  a  better  word.  The 
personality  of  the  genuine  preacher  is 
born  of  the  spirit,  and  is  largely  made 

up  of  the  elements  of  hope,  fear,  love, 
aspiration,  devotion. 

The  truth  is  that  faith  in  the  super- 
natural is  not  dead ;  faith  in  the  invisible 
will  never  die.  The  ancient  religious 
instincts  of  men  will  change  their  mode 
of  expression,  but  they  will  retain  their 
energy.  The  scientific  method  does  not 
threaten  them  with  extinction.  The 
democratic  principle  does  not  endanger 
their  authority,  and  the  man  who  can 
arouse  them  is  sure  of  a  hearing.  Every 
great  epoch  has  been  inaugurated  by 
the  pulpit,  has  been  heralded  by  the 
preacher.  The  Hebrew  ages  were ; 
the  Christian  age  was.  The  Church  of 
Rome  sent  out  its  preaching  orders  to 
revive  a  declining  belief ;  the  Protes- 
tant reform  depended  on  the  pulpit  for 
its  extension.  Luther's  force  was,  in 
great  measure  parasnetical  ;  so  was  Cal- 
vin's. In  England,  France,  Germany, 
Italy,  Switzerland,  there  was  a  line  of 
orators  with  their  message  from  the  Lord. 
The  Puritan  era  came  in  with  preach- 
ing. The  modern  pulpit  is  broader, 
more  elastic,  more  practical,  less  theo- 
logical, less  speculative,  less  doctrinal, 
less  severely  logical,  but  its  old  spirit  of 
moral  operation  is  preserved.  It  still 
appeals  to  revelation,  still  falls  back  on 
inspiration,  still  assumes  the  immediate 
presence  of  Deity,  —  an  immanent  God, 
perhaps,  but  a  living  God,  —  with  all  the 
old  reality  and  all  the  old  vividness  of 
conception.  The  radical  pulpit  simply 
transfers  the  divine  influence  to  other 
fields ;  it  never  dreams  of  abolishing  the 
idea  of  it.  Atheistical  it  cannot  be ; 
pantheistical  it  may  be ;  theistical,  in 
some  form,  it  commonly  is.  , 

The  conditions  of  a  powerful  pulpit 
to-day  are  essentially  the  same  as  for- 
merly :  devotion,  sincerity,  open-minded- 
ness,  translucency  of  soul.  The  pulpit 
must  contain  consecrated  men,  who  live 
for  the  highest  thought,  the  noblest  life, 
the  purest  sympathies  ;  who  are  out  of 
the  world,  do  not  seek  its  prizes,  do  not 
court  its  applause  ;  who  are  not  secta- 


Voices  of  Power. 


nans,  not  churchmen,  not  polemics,  — 
men  who  lay  by  their  individuality, 
their  pride,  their  self-sufficiency ;  who 
are  no  hypocrites  or  pretenders;  who 
do  not  strut,  vapor,  put  on  airs  of  supe- 
riority, or  practice  affectations  of  any 
kind,  but  who  stand  fairly  on  the  border 
line,  where  humanity  blends  with  divin- 
ity, —  men  of  glowing  enthusiasm,  of 
invincible  hopefulness,  of  perfect  good- 
will, friends  and  servants  of  mankind. 
Such  are  not  rare,  and  they  are  becom- 
ing less  uncommon  with  every  genera- 
tion. It  will  be  generally  allowed  that 
the  great  need  in  all  communities  and  at 
all  times  is  of  men  of  this  stamp.  The 
culture  of  the  moral  nature  is  still  the 
chief  concern.  The  prevalence  of  knowl- 
edge renders  compulsory  a  finer  inter- 
pretation of  nature,  history,  experience. 
We  depend  on  the  pulpit  to  supply  this 
perennial  demand.  We  depend  on  the 
pulpit  to  furnish  the  conditions  of  its 
maintenance.  The  habit  of  fault-find- 
ing because  it  does  not  satisfy  them  is 
an  evidence  of  the  expectation  that  ex- 
ists yet  in  the  world  of  thinkers.  That 
people  are  discontented,  that  they  com- 
plain, that  they  stay  away  from  church, 
may  be  a  good  sign.  The  pulpit  should 
be  based  on  the  attribute  of  intellectual 
power.  The  occupant  of  it  should  be 
held  to  a  high  standard.  It  is  our  duty 
to  insist  that  the  Sunday  shall  not  be 
wasted,  given  up  to  quacks,  drivelers, 
buffoons.  My  quarrel  with  the  commu- 
nity is  that  it  is  too  acquiescent ;  criti- 
cises too  little ;  is  too  easily  satisfied ; 
accepts  mediocrity  of  learning,  talent, 
devotion  ;  abuses  too  mildly  ;  ridicules 
too  gently.  The  people  who  say  the 
hardest  things  are,  unfortunately,  people 
who  do  not  begin  with  aspiration.  Re- 
ligious men  are  the  first  to  detect  impos- 
ture. The  pulpit  can  be  trusted  to  purge 
itself  from  intruders.  A  distinguished 
preacher  once  said,  "  When  I  wish  to 
throw  stones  at  the  church  windows,  I 
shall  go  outside."  It  was  well  remarked, 
for  to  throw  stones  is  a  hostile  and  rath- 

er a  lawless  proceeding.  It  is  true,  all 
the  same,  that  the  real  improvement  of 
the  pulpit  comes  from  the  inside,  from 
the  growth  of  serious  opinion  among 
earnest  men,  who  see  what  the  age  and 
the  soul  require.  The  correspondence 
between  John  Ruskin  and  certain  cler- 
gymen of  the  Church  of  England,  pub- 
lished two  or  three  years  ago,  throws 
much  light  on  the  prevailing  tendency 
towards  a  more  spiritual  understanding 
of  the  pulpit's  office  ;  the  short  preface 
by  Dr.  Matteson  displaying  admirably 
the  temper  of  the  leading  ecclesiastics. 
As,  in  the  case  of  a  battle,  the  hard 
fighting  is  done  by  the  ordinary  soldiery, 
whose  disciplined  valor  carries  the  day, 
so,  in  this  warfare  of  religion,  the  ordi- 
nary labor  is  performed  by  obscure  men, 
whose  names  are  never  spoken,  and 
whose  consecrated  lives  attest  their  fidel- 
ity to  the  highest  interests  of  man.  The 
officers  bear  the  brunt  of  the  criticism, 
but  they  do  not  fill  the  ranks. 

The  best  and  the  worst  has  been  said 
about  the  pulpit,  yet  it  is  not  probable 
that  any  agency  will  ever  take  its  place. 
Its  very  imperfections  —  and  in  the  na- 
ture of  things  it  cannot  be  all  it  aims  to 
become  —  act  as  a  constant  spur  to  its 
improvement.  Other  ministrations,  hon- 
orable and  capable  as  they  may  be,  do 
not  propose  to  themselves  the  same  ob- 
jects, of  course  cannot  produce  the  same 
results.  The  newspaper  press,  for  in- 
stance, reaches  a  greater  number  of  peo- 
ple, serves  a  greater  number  of  wants, 
touches  vastly  more  points  of  interest, 
deals  with  more  immediate  concerns, 
strives  after  a  more  comprehensive  en- 
lightenment ;  but  its  whole  design  is  dif- 
ferent. It  has  another  ideal,  which  it 
endeavors  to  reach,  but  which  in  propor- 
tion as  it  is  attained  is  seen  to  be  essen- 
tially distinct  from  that  of  the  preacher. 
The  time  has  gone  by  when  praise  of 
the  newspaper  press  is  called  for,  or  is 
timely.  Blame  of  it  is  out  of  place.  An 
attempt  to  understand  the  secret  of  its 
power  is  alone  wise.  That  its  domain  is 


Voices  of  Power. 


immense,  its  sway  almost  boundless,  its 
stride  prodigious,  must  be  evident  to  all 
who  have  eyes  to  see.  In  1776,  but  lit- 
tle more  than  a  hundred  years  ago,  there 
were  thirty -seven  papers  of  all  grades  in 
the  United  States.  Of  these,  nine  were 
in  Pennsylvania,  seven  in  Massachu- 
setts, four  in  New  York.  All  of  them, 
with  a  single  exception,  were  weeklies, 
and  this  one  was  a  semi-weekly.  There 
was  no  daily  paper  in  the  country. 
Five  years  ago  there  were  eight  thou- 
sand papers  of  all  orders,  of  which  New 
York  had  the  largest  number,  Penn- 
sylvania the  next  in  quantity,  while 
Massachusetts  ranked  seventh  or  eighth. 
Now  the  dailies  are  all  but  numberless. 
A  century  since,  there  was  a  paper  for 
one  in  thirty  thousand  people.  Five 
years  since,  there  was  one  for  five  thou- 
sand people.  In  1876,  there  were  in 
this  country  eight  thousand  one  hundred 
and  twenty-nine  periodicals  of  every 
rank,  with  a  total  circulation  of  some- 
thing over  a  billion.  The  population  of 
the  country  was,  at  the  same  time,  a 
little  over  thirty-eight  million.  There 
certainly  is  room  enough  for  the  growth 
of  the  press.  It  is  not  likely  soon  to 
overpass  the  pulpit.  We  sometimes 
hear  people  talk  as  if  there  were  dan- 
ger of  an  inundation  from  newspapers  ; 
but  can  any  such  event  be  anticipated  ? 
There  is  more  ground  for  the  opinion 
that  we  have  not  newspapers  enough  for 
the  needs  of  the  people.  Less  than  fif- 
teen years  ago,  there  may  have  been 
started,  on  an  average,  six  new  papers  a 
day,  yet  the  actual  increase  in  five  years 
previous  to  1876  was  only  about  two 
thousand.  The  others  had  died,  or  been 
consolidated,  or  shrunk  from  view.  The 
large  controlling  papers,  on  which  the 
smaller  papers  feed,  are  very  few.  The 
metropolitan  press  is  comparatively 
small.  Most  papers  owe  a  great  deal  to 
the  scissors,  to  the  art  of  making  extracts 
from  the  great  journals  ;  therefore,  un- 
less the  towns  are  to  become  cities,  and 
small  journals  great  ones,  —  an  event  at 

present  beyond  conjecture,  —  the  power 
of  the  newspaper  press  must  have  its 
numerical  limitation. 

The  primary  object  of  the  newspaper 
is  to  convey  enlightenment  to  the  mul- 
titude. In  the  beginning  it  professed 
simply  to  supply  intelligence  regarding 
current  incidents  of  importance.  When 
the  world  was  small  the  paper  was  small. 
When  intercourse  was  difficult  and  in- 
frequent, papers  were  of  necessity  local 
in  their  scope,  limited  in  their  circula- 
tion, restricted  in  their  horizon.  The 
Wide,  Wide  World  was  a  child's  look 
over  a  fence.  With  the  expansion  of 
the  universe,  new  scenes  were  brought 
to  view ;  and  with  increasing  facilities 
of  communication,  fresh  curiosity  was 
awakened.  The  demand  for  informa- 
tion extended.  Now  the  great  news- 
paper gets  news  from  every  part  of  the 
planet.  In  every  chief  centre,  in  every 
great  city,  there  must  be  correspondents, 
charged  with  the  duty  of  reporting  deeds 
and  transactions.  If  an  event  of  public 
interest  occurs  in  Egypt,  India,  Rome, 
Constantinople,  Mexico,  or  wherever 
else,  special  commissioners  are  sent  out, 
keen  observers,  trained  writers,  careful 
chroniclers  of  history,  to  transmit  in- 
telligence in  regard  to  everything  that 
passes  beneath  the  eye.  The  cost  of  all 
this  is  something  fabulous.  The  amount 
of  energy,  of  enterprise,  of  disciplined 
skill,  required  is  fairly  beyond  computa- 
tion. The  brain-work  of  the  editor  in 
chief  —  of  the  subordinates,  too,  for  that 
matter  —  must  be  prodigious,  and  it  is 

Then  the  external  facts  must  be  ex- 
plained, accounted  for,  and  interpreted. 
Their  meaning  is  to  be  disclosed,  their 
tendency  indicated,  their  consequence 
foreshadowed.  Hence  the  prominence 
of  the  editorial  column,  the  necessity 
of  comment  by  experienced  minds  who 
have  made  the  subjects  a  study.  The 
best  statisticians,  critics,  historians,  finan- 
ciers, scholars,  must  be  employed  to  re- 
duce to  reason  the  crude  material  of 


Voices  of  Power. 


.phenomena.  This  addition  is  of  com- 
paratively recent  origin.  Sixty  years 
ago  there  were  no  editorial  contribu- 
tions. It  is  an  acute  Bostonian,  as 
high-minded  as  he  was  sagacious,  who 
has  the  credit  of  this  innovation.  He 
was  himself  a  singularly  able  man,  of 
great  penetration  and  enlightened  pub- 
lic spirit ;  but  he  secured  the  service  of 
the  most  competent  men  in  Massachu- 
setts, for  his  purpose.  His  editorials 
acquired  fame  all  over  the  country ; 
they  were  copied  in  other  papers,  and 
laid  the  foundation  of  the  system  that 
has  become  habitual  as  well  as  adequate 
and  conscientious. 

Conscientious,  it  is  repeated.  For 
behind  every  fact  lies  a  moral  no  less 
than  an  intellectual  cause.  The  ante- 
cedents are  often  exceedingly  subtle. 
Phenomena  are  subject  to  law ;  they  im- 
plicate conscience ;  they  are  connect- 
ed with  the  inner  history  of  mankind. 
These  relations  must  be  indicated :  hence 
the  press  preaches.  The  editor  is,  in 
a  certain  sense,  a  preacher ;  he  must 
tell  about  the  right  and  wrong  of  move- 
ments. There  is  an  ethics  of  the  press. 
To  meet  this  requirement,  men  exercised 
in  the  knowledge  of  moral  questions  are 
employed.  Many  clergymen  write  for 
the  papers.  Pulpits  are  subsidized.  Of 
course,  the  moralizing  is  more  or  less 
conventional.  It  appeals  to  the  general 
conscience.  /It  rarely  soars  above  its 
occasion,  or  leaves  the  beaten  track  of 
conviction.  The  paper  assumes  the  av- 
erage moral  sentiment  of  the  communi- 
ty, —  the  highest  average  sentiment,  cer- 
tainly, —  and  is  compelled  to  be,  in  sub- 
stance, commonplace.  It  cannot  diverge 
far  from  accepted  principle,  for  by  so 
doing  it  would  be  unfaithful  to  its  lead- 
ing purpose,  which  is  to  enlighten  the 
minds  of  its  contemporaries,  not  directly 
to  elevate  their  consciences.  It  takes 
existing  laws  of  duty  for  granted,  fol- 
lows the  road  of  tradition,  and,  however 
fresh  and  forcible  it  may  be  in  expres- 
sion, abides  by  conceded  examples.  Now 

and  then  an  editor  ventures  on  original 
theses,  indulges  in  speculative  lucubra- 
tions, or  propounds  ethical  theories  be- 
yond his  calling.  But  this  is  felt  to  be 
out  of  his  province,  and  is  set  down  to 
the  account  of  some  private  eccentricity. 
The  task  of  uplifting  the  souls  of  men 
is  committed  to  other  hands,  and  if  en- 
trusted to  him  alone  would  hardly  be 
fulfilled.  To  him  belongs  the  office  of 
the  interpreter,  not  that  of  the  prophet. 
Unquestionably,  his  influence  may  be 
great  in  extending  the  sphere  of  the  pul- 
pit, in  holding  the  preacher  to  the  level 
of  his  vocation,  in  distributing  moral 
forces,  but  his  power  to  originate  them 
is  small. 

This  is  the  most  important  limitation 
of  the  press,  and  herein  it  differs  from 
the  pulpit,  which  holds  its  occupant  to 
the  highest  mark  of  ideal  aspiration. 
The  more  completely  he  loses  himself 
in  heavenly  contemplations,  the  better 
men  are  satisfied.  The  limitations  in 
question  may  be  explained  by  the  fact 
that  the  newspaper  press  is  a  great  busi- 
ness, and  must  obey  the  rules  of  busi- 
ness. Its  expenses  are  enormous.  The 
salaries,  rents,  costs  of  correspondence, 
of  editorial  writing,  of  news  agencies, 
reporters,  and  the  rest  are  incessant  as 
they  are  absorbing  of  money.  It  re- 
quires a  large  outlay  to  start  a  daily 
paper,  and  to  maintain  it  when  started. 
And  this  must  be  made  good,  and  more 
than  made  good ;  otherwise  the  result  is 
failure.  Here  and  there,  to  be  sure,  a 
paper  is  begun  and  continued  for  a  time, 
longer  or  shorter,  in  some  particular  in- 
terest that  commands  the  support  of  a 
special  individual  or  company,  but  this 
does  not  count.  The  press,  as  a  rule, 
is  a  venture,  conducted  on  the  principle 
of  every  pecuniary  investment.  It  of- 
fers to  the  capitalist  a  fair  return  for 
the  money  he  has  put  into  the  shares, 
and  if  no  such  return  is  forthcoming,  the 
investment  is  not  a  good  one.  There 
are  papers  that  represent  more  than  a 
million  of  dollars.  If  this  sum  is  de- 


Voices  of  Power. 


rived  from  subscriptions,  as  it  seldom  or 
never  is,  the  public  taste  must  be  pri- 
marily consulted.  If  it  is  derived  from 
advertisements,  the  business  community 
must  be  accommodated.  The  advertise- 
ments depend  on  the  circulation ;  the 
circulation  results  from  the  popular  ap- 
proval. Thus,  at  last,  the  public  sen- 
timent is  made  the  test  of  excellence. 
It  is  impossible  to  see  how  this  dilemma 
can  be  escaped.  There  may  be  papers 
that  live  for  a  while  without  advertis- 
ing, —  sectarian  organs,  Sunday-school 
journals,  instituted  for  denominational 
purposes,  —  but  they  are  small  and  in- 
significant. And  these  seek  advertise- 
ments, though  not  often  with  success, 
inasmuch  as  their  constituency  is  not 
large,  and  is  formed  of  people  who  are 
already  attached  to  the  cause  advocated. 
Here  is  an  unavoidable  peril,  not  mere- 
ly financial,  but  moral ;  for  the  public 
mind  nowhere  is  remarkably  high-toned. 
Remunerative  advertisements  must  be 
invited ;  must  be,  if  possible,  secured. 
How  far  policy  may  be  stretched  to  meet 
the  exigency  will  rest  on  the  conscience 
of  the  editor  or  editors.  At  all  events, 
policy  must  be  invoked.  Most  papers 
advertise  their  circulation,  of  course  with 
a  motive,  which  appears  on  the  face  of 
the  proceeding.  Deference  to  a  sub- 
scription list  is  sometimes  increased  by 
this  means.  A  falling  off  of  circulation 
will  be  injurious.  The  management  may 
regret  this  necessity  of  pleasing  a  fickle 
public,  may  rebel  against  it,  may  suggest, 
teach,  remonstrate,  inculcate,  enjoin  ;  but 
can  circumstances  be  controlled  ?  Even 
when  the  multitude  becomes  infatuated, 
possessed,  maddened  by  some  strange 
prejudice,  some  unwarrantable  persua- 
sion, must  not  the  conductors  of  the  pa- 
per be  careful  how  they  run  counter  to 
the  tide  ?  No  paper  that  loves  its  own 
existence  can  afford  to  defy  the  world. 
No  paper  dares  be  so  independent  that 
it  will  put  itself  in  opposition  to  all 
opinion.  It  is  dependent  on  its  very 
independence.  If  its  patrons  maintain 

it,  all  is  well.  But  its  patrons  must 
maintain  it.  If  the  editor  sets  at  naught 
their  judgment,  he  as  certainly  drives 
his  vessel  on  a  rock  as  does  the  head  of 
an  ordinary  enterprise. 

Here  is  the  distinction  between  an 
ideal  and  a  practical  profession.  The 
ideal  profession  stands  upon  principle ; 
the  practical  profession  stands  upon  pol- 
icy. Every  calling,  as  soon  as  it  leaves 
principle  for  policy,  incurs  the  danger  of 
moral  depreciation.  The  pulpit  does  so 
even  more  fatally  than  the  press,  be- 
cause its  aims  are  higher.  Under  the 
old  system  of  ecclesiastical  supremacy, 
the  preacher  was  upheld  by  the  church. 
The  community  was  directed  by  the 
priesthood.  The  power  of  spiritual  au- 
thority was  universally  acknowledged. 
The  minister  was  therefore  independent 
of  social  influence.  He  was  strong  in 
the  support  of  his  superiors,  who  silent- 
ly backed  his  word.  Men  might  like 
what  he  said,  or  they  might  dissent  from 
it ;  they  were  compelled  to  listen,  be- 
cause the  speaker  was  countenanced  by 
celestial  inspiration.  In  the  days  of 
Catholic  supremacy,  just  before  the  Ref- 
ormation, a  class  of  preachers  was  sent 
out  to  revive  the  drooping  faith  of  the 
believers.  Their  moral  audacity  was 
amazing.  They  went  everywhere  with 
their  encouragement  and  rebuke.  They 
stood  before  monarchs,  princes,  gentle- 
men, ladies.  The  Pope  himself  came 
under  their  censure,  for  greater  than  any 
earthly  dominion  was  the  deamless  spirit 
he  represented.  In  the  early  days  of 
Protestant  rule,  the  voice  of  the  Holy 
Ghost  in  the  soul  was  louder  than  any 
human  clamor.  The  period  of  Puritan 
energy  was  also  the  period  of  implicit 
confidence  in  the  monitions  of  the  super- 
terrestrial  nature.  In  these  days  of  nat- 
uralism, under  the  democratic  system, 
the  prevailing  faith  in  a  revealed  will 
gives  the  pulpit  courage.  The  wish  of 
the  majority  sometimes  overbears  the 
speech  of  the  timid  man.  He  must  con- 
sult the  press  before  he  utters  his  con- 


Voices  of  Power. 


victioa  on  any  matter  of  divided  senti- 
ment. We  have  all  known  instances 
where  conscience  clashed  against  expe- 
diency, where  the  multitude  rose  up  and 
overturned  the  authority  of  the  pulpit, 
and  the  minister  was  obliged  to  depart 
from  his  place.  The  pew  rents  dwindled, 
and  a  new  administration  was  thought 
more  likely  to  "  edify."  This  event  fre- 
quently happened  in  the  years  that  pre- 
ceded the  civil  war ;  but  a  purely  spir- 
itual exigency  may  arise  which  brings 
the  common  sense  of  the  hearers  into 
collision  with  the  soul  of  the  prophet, 
and  then  the  consequence  is  equally  dis- 
astrous. The  preacher  who  regards  his 
calling  as  a  business,  as  the  novelist  has 
often  described  him,  is  lost.  He  preaches 
what  the  congregation  likes  to  hear. 
He  prophesies  smooth  things,  because 
such  only  are  attractive,  such  only  draw 
the  people  who  pay.  Hence  devices 
for  gaining  audiences  ;  sensational  ser- 
mons ;  loud  declamations ;  the  facility 
with  which  men  persuade  themselves 
that  they  believe  what  they  have  dis- 
carded ;  the  habit  of  thinking  one  thing 
in  the  study,  and  saying  another  on  Sun- 
day. The  office  thus  becomes  a  bargain- 
ing shop,  and  it  lapses  at  once  into  spir- 
itual degeneracy. 

This  danger  the  press  is  exposed  to 
continually  and  inevitably.  How  far 
it  eludes  the  danger  it  is  not  for  me  to 
say.  The  editorial  conscience  can  alone 
answer  that  question.  A  curious  con- 
comitant, of  this  deference  to  polite 
opinion  is  the  tone  of  infallibility  the 
press  assumes.  It  is  obliged  to  speak 
with  authority  in  order  to  keep  the  con- 
fidence of  its  supporters.  It  must  abide 
by  its  assertion ;  otherwise  it  weakens 
its  grasp  on  its  adherents.  Consistency 
is  its  jewel,  even  if  it  be  consistency  in 
misjudgment  and  mistake.  To  retract 
is  perilous  ;  to  correct  an  error  is  to  con- 
fess it ;  to  give  prominence  to  a  recanta- 
tion is  humbling.  To  forgive  is  always 
difficult ;  to  ask  forgiveness  requires  al- 
most supernatural  virtue.  None  but  no- 

ble minds  can  do  that.  He  who  grants 
looks  down  on  a  suppliant ;  he  who  asks 
looks  up  to  a  judge.  He  who  admits 
no  judge  more  exalted  than  personal  in- 
clination or  popular  approval  will  not 
often  take  the  attitude  of  humiliation. 
It  is  done  sometimes,  not  often,  still  less 
habitually ;  for  it  is  a  hard  thing  for  a 
paper  with  a  hundred  thousand  readers 
who  pin  their  faith  to  its  columns  to 
take  back  its  own  asseveration.  Fidel- 
ity to  its  main  purpose  forbids  its  mak- 
ing concessions  which  might  impair  its 

Another  source  of  limitation  in  the 
newspaper  press  is  the  necessity  of  pay- 
ing attention  to  local  politics.  This  is 
not  a  fault,  nor  even  a  misfortune.  It 
may,  indeed,  imply  a  most  excellent 
quality ;  for  in  a  democratic  country 
politics  ought  to  be  a  leading  concern 
of  the  people,  and  the  task  of  inform- 
ing the  general  mind  about  it,  of  scruti- 
nizing candidates,  testing  questions,  and 
estimating  issues,  is  of  primary  impor- 
tance. Great  discussions  are  continual- 
ly agitated.  The  merits  as  well  as  the 
demerits  of  causes  are  exhibited,  the 
proportions  of  phenomena  are  ascer- 
tained, and  in  the  course  of  debate  ab- 
solute principles  are  brought  into  view. 
All  this  is  admirable  as  bearing  on  the 
higher  education  of  the  community  at 
large.  Every  considerable  paper  is, 
fortunately,  obliged  to  have  political 
sympathies  ;  every  leading  paper  must 
undertake  political  advocacy.  The  sym- 
pathies grow  from  year  to  year  more 
generous ;  the  advocacy  becomes  from 
year  to  year  most  just  and  noble.  That 
the  public  mind  is  enlightened  by  the 
uninterrupted  agitation,  the  general  con- 
science purified,  the  standard  of  equi- 
ty raised,  the  level  of  truth  elevated,  is 
heartily  conceded ;  nay,  is  gratefully  ac- 
knowledged. That  this  is  in  great  meas- 
ure due  to  the  efforts  of  journalists  can- 
not be  doubted.  At  the  same  time,  it 
would  be  miraculous  if  the  habit  of  con- 
fining attention  to  the  details  of  party 


Voices  of  Power. 


management  did  not  weaken  the  facul- 
ty of  ideal  contemplation,  and  render 
difficult,  to  say  the  least,  the  duty  of  con- 
sidering everlasting  ideas.  This  task  de- 
volves on  other  shoulders,  not  of  neces- 
sity more  willing  or  able,  but  suited  to 
another  kind  of  burden. 

The  press  is  a  great  power  for  dis- 
tributing intelligence  of  all  kinds.  It  is 
a  vast  popular  educator,  in  science,  the 
useful  arts,  taste  for  literature,  music, 
painting,  sculpture,  in  all  that  belongs 
to  human  existence  in  this  world.  A 
critic,  a  keen  observer,  a  man  of  singu- 
lar intelligence,  himself  a  distinguished 
preacher,  once  said  to  me  that  he  never 
read  a  paper  that  he  did  not  come  across 
something  he  wished  to  cut  out  and  pre- 
serve ;  and  he  was  prevented  from  do- 
ing so  only  by  the  number  of  such  par- 
agraphs. This  too  is  the  experience  of 
other  men,  as  I  can  bear  cheerful  testi- 
mony. This  power  of  the  press  is  in- 
creasing continually,  and  is  becoming 
more  and  more  beneficent.  To  every 
one  who  can  look  back  half  a  century, 
it  must  be  evident  that  in  quality  as 
well  as  in  quantity  the  improvement  is 
immense.  That  there  is  room  for  more 
will  be  admitted  by  none  so  eagerly  as 
by  editors  themselves,  who  are  tireless 
in  their  endeavors  to  raise  their  calling 
to  the  rank  they  perceive  it  should  hold. 
The  real  friend  of  his  kind  must  rejoice 
in  the  signs  of  such  advance,  for  they 
prove  that  one  of  the  chief  agents  of 
civilization  is  about  its  work. 

The  mission  of  the  stage  is  no  less 
lofty  and  peculiar  than  that  of  the  pulpit 
or  the  press.  Though  its  office  is  prima- 
rily to  entertain,  it  aims  at  doing  this  in 
a  way  more  refined  and  elegant  as  time 
goes  on,  thus  promoting  the  aesthetic  ed- 
ucation of  society.  The  epoch  of  Pu- 
ritan protest  against  the  theatre  is  gone 
by.  Amusement  is  no  longer  associated 
with  vice.  The  sources  of  turpitude 
have  been,  once  and  for  all,  removed 
from  buildings  devoted  to  dramatic  art. 
Clergymen  need  no  longer  defend  the 

stage.  The  best  actors  move  freely  in 
the  choicest  circles.  Even  orthodox 
preachers  show,  by  their  attendance  at 
places  of  theatrical  entertainment  in  for- 
eign cities,  that  their  objections  are  not 
founded  on  principle,  but  rather  on  local 
convenience,  and  that  they  would  gladly 
introduce  a  more  generous  form  of  cul- 
ture at  home.  The  deeper  religious  ob- 
jection, that  the  actor's  profession  is  es- 
sentially unreal,  illusory,  artificial,  false, 
hypocritical,  perhaps,  inasmuch  as  he 
must  pretend  to  be  somebody  else  ;  must 
simulate  a  kindness,  a  state,  a  virtue,  not 
his  own ;  must  wear  borrowed  clothes, 
and  put  on  a  mask,  and  seem  to  be  no- 
ble when  he  is  at  heart  base,  is  grad- 
ually disappearing  under  finer  influences, 
at  the  common  demand  for  higher  con- 
ception, for  more  consummate  skill,  for 
nicer  delineation  of  character,  for  a  del- 
icate quality  of  dress  and  decoration 
which  a  generation  ago  were  unknown. 
Coarseness  is  scarcely  tolerated  in  our 
days ;  rudeness  is  severely  criticised. 
The  arts  of  expression  are  cultivated 
because  they  are  insisted  on. 

The  passion  for  the  drama,  it  is  on 
all  sides  confessed,  has  its  seat  in  hu- 
man nature.  The  church  admitted  this 
long  ago,  in  the  miracle  plays,  by  which 
received  doctrines  were  commended  to 
the  uneducated  classes.  The  church 
must  admit  it  again  in  the  new  shape 
prescribed  by  the  modern  spirit,  wel- 
coming its  gay  coadjutor  to  a  share  in 
the  task  of  educating  society.  '  For  the 
actors  themselves  —  the  foremost  of 
them  —  are  doing  what  they  can  to  ren- 
der their  profession  acceptable  to  the 
worthiest  men  and  women.  They  work 
hard  ;  they  study  incessantly  ;  they  con- 
sult the  best  standards  of  feeling.  If 
they  are  ingenious  in  producing  meretri- 
cious effects  by  the  use  of  paint,  cos- 
metic, and  costume,  it  is  simply  because 
the  public  inclination  runs  in  that  direc- 
tion, not  because  they  themselves  love 
ornament  or  the  resort  to  tricks.  As 
fast  as  they  are  permitted  they  will  ele- 


Voices  of  Power. 


vate  the  standard  of  taste.  Their  busi- 
ness is  to  make  moral  sentiment  attract- 
ive ;  not  to-  promulgate  absolute  ethics, 
not  to  diffuse  information,  but  to  make 
such  morality  as  exists  appreciated,  and 
to  recommend  it  by  all  the  means  at  their 
command.  The  appetite  for  high  trag- 
edy is  less  and  less  importunate.  Bold, 
melodramatic  effects  are  seldom  pro- 
duced. Violent  ethical  contrasts  are 
avoided.  Strong  painting  of  moral  pe- 
culiarities is  no  longer  in  vogue.  The 
finer  shadings  of  life  are  indicated,  —  a 
sign  of  healthy  realism  in  thought  and 
emotion.  The  desire  for  comedy  is 
chastened  by  a  very  considerable  refine- 
ment in  the  character  of  comedy  itself, 
which  is  taken  out  of  the  region  of  buf- 
foonery and  burlesque,  and  carried  up 
into  the  domain  of  wholesome  merri- 

It  is  beginning  to  be  suspected,  in 
fact,  that  the  actor,  and  not  society,  is 
the  principal  victim  of  the  profession. 
He  is  the  sufferer  from  insincere  condi- 
tions, if  there  is  any.  He  must  labor 
at  night,  when  other  people  enjoy  them- 
selves ;  and  his  labor  is  especially  ex- 
hausting to  the  nervous  energy,  so  that 
he  must  sleep  through  the  sunniest  hours 
of  the  day.  He  is  cut  off  seriously  from 
social  intercourse,  even  in  the  period  of 
his  fame  ;  and  until  his  fame  is  acquired 
he  has  no  chance  to  go  into  the  world. 
The  chief  interests  of  mankind  —  busi- 
ness and  politics  —  have  but  little  part 
in  his  life.  The  movements  of  social  re- 
form pass  him  by.  He  dwells  habitual- 
ly in  a  world  of  his  own,  a  world  apart 
from  his  fellow  creatures.  He  belongs 
to  a  caste.  His  notions  of  behavior  are 
suggested  by  his  environment.  His  ideas 
of  virtue  are  apt  to  be  characterized  by 
the  peculiarities  of  a  remote  and  fanciful 
ideal.  The  moral  persuasions  of  a  dis- 
tinct order  are  visibly  impressed  on  his 
mind.  Both  his  virtues  and  his  vices 
are  incident  to  a  calling  that  shuts  him 
up  in  a  species  of  isolation  from  his 
kind.  His  temptations  are  his  own; 

his  victories,  too,  are  his  own.  Other 
men  have  stronger  supports,  and  deserve 
sterner  judgment  for  errors.  In  my 
own  experience,  both  the  men  and  the 
women  merit  more  honor  than  is  meted 
out  to  them. 

There  have  been  times  when  the 
stage  was  made  to  minister  directly  to 
the  political,  social,  and  moral  guidance 
of  mankind  ;  when  it  was  wielded  as 
a  force  by  kings  and  courts ;  when  its 
writers  regarded  it  as  the  object  of 
their  lives  to  satirize  folly  in  the  inter- 
est of  wisdom.  In  a  word,  the  play- 
wright was  a  prophet.  But,  as  a  rule, 
the  office  of  the  actor  is  to  entertain. 
This  is  no  mean  function.  A  sorely 
tasked  clergyman  of  Boston  used  to  fre- 
quent, when  he  visited  New  York,  a  cer- 
tain theatre,  well  known  then,  where  he 
was  sure  to  be  shaken  out  of  his  cares 
by  side  -  splitting  laughter,  and  sent 
home  a  new  man.  The  actor,  as  it  be- 
fell, was  no  model  of  private  virtue,  but 
he  performed  this  vast  service  for  his 
fellow  men.  Better  offices  are  rendered 
now,  but  they  are  the  same  in  kind.  To 
diminish  in  some  degree  the  pressure  of 
toil  is  a  great  blessing.  Unhappily,  they 
who  least  need  to  have  the  pressure 
lightened,  the  leisurely,  pleasure-seeking 
classes,  are  the  chief  supporters  of  the 
theatre.  But  the  most  cultivated  peo- 
ple, the  most  responsible  members  of 
the  community,  will  become  the  patrons 
of  it  in  proportion  as  its  office  is  better 
appreciated.  Still,  the  multitude  re- 
quire, more  than  the  few,  this  solace  of 
entertainment,  for  they  have  not  so  many 
resources  in  their  homes  and  their  daily 
life.  They  are  the  people  who  need  to 
be  amused.  They  bear  the  heaviest 
burdens  of  existence.  The  rich  or  edu- 
cated classes  can  do  without  amusement, 
on  ordinary  occasions,  or  can  obtain  it 
through  other  channels.  During  the 
days  of  terror  in  Paris  that  marked  the 
French  Revolution,  in  1793,  between 
twenty  and  thirty  theatres  gathered 
crowds  every  evening,  the  actors  and 


Voices  of  Power. 


actresses  exerting  themselves  to  keep 
quiet  the  agonized  spirits  of  the  metrop- 
olis. In  the  darkest  hours  of  our  civil 
war,  when  the  ministers  were  sustain- 
ing drooping  hearts  by  holding  before 
them  the  precepts  of  eternal  justice ; 
when  the  daily  papers  published  bulle- 
tins of  dismay,  and  tried  to  put  the  most 
cheerful  interpretation  on  disaster,  the 
theatres  of  New  York  were  thronged  as 
they  never  had  been  before  by  men  and 
women  who  wished  to  escape  from  pain- 
ful thoughts.  To  some  the  mirthfulness 
appeared  unseemly,  but  they  who  saw 
deeper  beheld  with  thankfulness  this 
provision  for  relieving  the  tension  of  an 
overcharged  nervous  system.  Laughter 
follows  close  on  tears. 

This  point  cannot  be  too  strongly 
stated.  It  would  be  a  real  misfortune 
were  the  actor  to  undertake  the  duty  of 
the  preacher  ;  for  then  he  would  not  car- 
ry the  multitude  with  him,  and  the  pre- 
sentation of  moral  ideas  would  be  sen- 
timental, if  not  extravagant.  For  the 
actor  to  play  the  reformer  would  be  a 
serious  mistake,  because  he  would  inevi- 
tably be  betrayed  into  fustian  or  silly 
pedantry.  He  would  diegust  many,  and 
amuse  none.  All  attempts  to  "  purify 
the  stage  "  by  making  it  an  adjunct  of 
religion  disclose  a  singular  ignorance 
of  the  true  mission  of  both.  A  play 
written  for  philosophers  would  not  in- 
terest merchants,  manufacturers,  or  arti- 
sans. Acting  that  might  please  saints 
could  not  be  acceptable  to  sinners,  as 
the  majority  of  men  are.  The  stage 
must  represent  the  society  it  entertains. 
The  player  must  be  popular.  Society, 
indeed,  would  be  the  gainer  if  actors 
and  actresses  would  study  to  accommo- 
date themselves  better  than  they  appear 
to  do  to  the  most  refined  moral  sense 
of  the  community  ;  if  they  would  ac- 
cept in  good  faith  their  duty  as  educa- 
tors of  their  generation.  The  custom- 
ary dependence  on  the  hair-dresser,  the 
milliner,  the  dealer  in  cosmetics,  the 

costumer,  is  not  encouraging  to  moral 
excellence.  The  adaptation  of  French 
plays,  with  their  inevitable  meretricious- 
ness,  to  say  nothing  of  their  daintily 
concealed  lubricity,  is  not  a  sign  of  ele- 
vated taste.  But  this  may  be  a  passing 
fashion.  The  increasing  popularity  of 
American  plays  argues  a  nobler  future, 
a  more  complete  adaptation  to  the  ideas 
of  a  young,  aspiring  people. 

The  actor  is  an  artist.  He  belongs 
to  the  great  brotherhood  of  the  masters 
of  perfect  form,  and  he  must  not  con- 
found electric  lights  with  beauty,  or 
make  paint  a  substitute  for  principles. 
The  introduction  of  personal  charms  as 
a  guarantee  of  histrionic  talent,  or  a 
passport  to  histrionic  success,  as  if  it 
were  enough  to  be  beautiful,  is  fatal  to 
lofty  attainment,  either  in  morality  or  in 
art,  and  should  be  frowned  at  instead  of 
being  indulged,  as  it  is  by  a  too  gener- 
ous profession. 

That  the  stage  has  a  very  dignified 
career  before  it  cannot  be  doubted  ;  that 
it  will  rise  above  its  difficulties  must  not 
be  questioned ;  that  it  holds  in  its  pos- 
session a  mighty  power  for  good  will  be 
gladly  believed  by  enlightened  minds. 
Its  function  is  intellectual,  and  therefore 
boundless  in  possibility.  There  is  sim- 
ply no  end  to  its  capabilities.  Though 
its  office  is  to  entertain,  it  is  also  its 
office  to  cultivate,  to  refine,  to  elevate, 
quite  as  distinctly  as  the  work  of  the 
press  is  to  impart  a  complete  information, 
or  as  the  task  of  the  pulpit  is  to  inspire 
the  human  soul.  These  are  the  three 
sources  of  power.  All  other  agencies 
are  but  variations  on  the  themes  they 
propose.  As  time  goes  on,  the  peculiar 
differences  in  their  design  will  probably 
be  disclosed  more  and  more.  They  will 
come  to  respect  one  another  as  fellow 
workers,  and  to  rejoice  each  in  the  oth- 
er's success  ;  all  jealousy  and  envy  being 
laid  aside,  as  between  real  artists  who 
are  endeavoring  to  promote  the  well 
being  of  humankind. 

0.  B.  Frothingham. 


A  Roman  Singer. 




As  it  often  happens  that,  in  affairs  of 
importance,  the  minor  events  which  lead 
to  the  ultimate  result  see.m  to  occur  rap- 
idly, and  almost  to  stumble  over  each 
other  in  their  haste,  it  came  to  pass  that 
on  the  very  evening  after  I  had  got 
Nino's  letter  I  was  sent  for  by  the  con- 

When  the  man  came  to  call  me,  I 
was  sitting  in  my  room,  from  force  of 
habit,  though  the  long  delay  had  made 
the  possibility  of  the  meeting  seem  shad- 
owy. I  was  hoping  that  Nino  might 
arrive  in  time  to  go  in  my  place,  for  I 
knew  that  he  would  not  be  many  hours 
behind  his  letter.  He  would  assuredly 
travel  as  fast  as  he  could,  and  if  he  had 
understood  my  directions  he  was  not 
likely  to  go  astray.  But  in  spite  of  my 
hopes  the  summons  came  too  soon,  and 
I  was  obliged  to  go  myself. 

Picture  to  yourselves  how  I  looked 
and  how  I  felt :  a  sober  old  professor, 
as  I  am,  stealing  out  in  the  night,  all 
wrapped  in  a  cloak  as  dark  and  shabby 
as  any  conspirator's  ;  armed  with  a  good 
knife  in  case  of  accidents ;  with  beating 
heart,  and  doubting  whether  I  could  use 
my  weapon  if  needful ;  and  guided  to 
the  place  of  tryst  by  the  confidential  ser- 
vant of  a  beautiful  and  unhappy  maiden. 
I  have  often  laughed  since  then  at  the 
figure  I  must  have  cut,  but  I  did  not 
laugh  at  the  time.  It  was  a  very  seri- 
ous affair. 

We  skirted  the  base  of  the  huge  rock 
on  which  the  castle  is  built,  and  reached 
the  small,  low  door  without  meeting 
any  one.  It  was  a  moonlit  night,  —  the 
Paschal  moon  was  nearly  at  the  full, — 
and  the  whiteness  made  each  separate 
iron  rivet  in  the  door  stand  out  distinct, 
thrown  into  relief  by  its  own  small  shad- 
ow on  the  seamed  oak.  My  guide  pro- 

duced a  ponderous  key,  which  screamed 
hoarsely  in  the  lock  under  the  pressure 
of  his  two  hands,  as  he  made  it  turn 
in  the  rusty  wards.  The  noise  fright- 
ened me,  but  the  man  laughed,  and  said 
they  could  not  hear  where  they  sat,  far 
up  in  the  vaulted  chamber,  telling  long 
stories  over  their  wine.  We  entered, 
and  I  had  to  mount  a  little  way  up  the 
dark  steps  to  give  him  room  to  close 
the  door  behind  us,  by  which  we  were 
left  in  total  darkness.  I  confess  I  was 
very  nervous  and  frightened  until  he 
lighted  a  taper  which  he  had  brought 
and  made  enough  light  to  show  the  way. 
The  stairs  were  winding  and  steep,  but 
perfectly  dry,  and  when  he  had  passed 
me  I  followed  him,  feeling  that  at  all 
events  the  door  behind  was  closed,  and 
there  was  some  one  between  me  and  any 
danger  ahead. 

The  man  paused  in  front  of  me,  and 
when  I  had  rounded  the  corner  of  the 
winding  steps  I  saw  that  a  brighter  light 
than  ours  shone  from  a  small  doorway 
opening  directly  upon  the  stair.  In  an- 
other moment  I  was  in  the  presence  of 
Hedwig  von  Lira.  The  man  retired, 
and  left  us. 

She  stood,  dressed  in  black,  against  the 
rough  stone  ;  the  strong  light  of  a  gor- 
geous gilt  lamp  that  was  placed  on  the 
floor  streamed  upward  on  her  white  face. 
Her  eyes  caught  the  brightness,  and 
seemed  to  burn  like  deep,  dark  gems, 
though  they  appeared  so  blue  in  the  day. 
She  looked  like  a  person  tortured  past 
endurance,  so  that  the  pain  of  the  soul 
has  taken  shape,  and  the  agony  of  the 
heart  has  assumed  substance.  Tears 
shed  had  hollowed  the  marble  cheeks, 
and  the  stronger  suffering  that  cannot 
weep  had  chiseled  out  great  shadows 
beneath  her  brows.  Her  thin  clasped 
hands  seemed  wringing  each  other  into 
strange  shapes  of  woe  ;  and  though  she 


A  Roman  Singer. 


stood  erect  as  a  slender  pillar  against  the 
black  rock,  it  was  rather  from  the  cour- 
age of  despair  than  because  she  was 
straight  and  tall  by  her  own  nature. 

I  bent  low  before  her,  awed  by  the 
extremity  of  suffering  I  saw. 

"  Are  you  Signer  Grandi  ?  "  she  asked, 
in  a  low  and  trembling  voice. 

"  Most  humbly  at  your  service,  Sig- 
nora  Contessina,"  I  answered.  She  put 
out  her  hand  to  me,  and  then  drew  it 
back  quickly,  with  a  timid,  nervous  look 
as  I  moved  to  take  it. 

"  I  never  saw  you,"  she  said,  "  but  I 
feel  as  though  you  must  be  a  friend  "  — 
She  paused. 

"  Indeed,  signorina,  I  am  here  for 
that  reason,"  said  I,  trying  to  speak 
stoutly,  and  so  to  inspire  her  with  some 
courage.  "  Tell  me  how  I  can  best 
serve  you  ;  and  though  I  am  not  young 
and  strong  like  Nino  Cardegna,  my  boy, 
I  am  not  so  old  but  that  I  can  do  what- 
soever you  command." 

"  Then,  in  God's  name,  save  me  from 
this" —  But  again  the  sentence  died 
upon  her  lips,  and  she  glanced  anxiously 
at  the  door.  I  reflected  that  if  any  one 
came  we  should  be  caught  like  mice  in 
a  trap,  and  I  made  as  though  I  would 
look  out  upon  the  stairs.  But  she 
stopped  me. 

"  I  am  foolishly  frightened,"  she  said. 
"  That  man  is  faithful,  and  will  keep 
watch."  I  thought  it  time  to  discover 
her  wishes. 

"  Signorina,"  said  I,  "  you  ask  me  to 
save  you.  You  do  not  say  from  what. 
I  can  at  least  tell  you  that  Nino  Car- 
degna will  be  here  in  a  day  or  two  "  — 
At  this  sudden  news  she  gave  a  little 
cry,  and  the  blood  rushed  to  her  cheeks, 
in  strange  contrast  with  their  deathly 
whiteness.  She  seemed  on  the  point  of 
speaking,  but  checked  herself,  and  her 
eyes,  that  had  looked  me  through  and 
through  a  moment  before,  drooped  mod- 
estly under  my  glance. 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  "  she  said  at  last,  in 
a  changed  voice.  "  Yes,  if  he  comes,  I 

think  the  Signor  Cardegna  will  help 

"  Madam,"  I  said,  very  courteously, 
for  I  guessed  her  embarrassment,  "  I 
can  assure  you  that  my  boy  is  ready  to 
give  you  his  life  in  return  for  the  kind- 
ness he  received  at  your  hands  in  Rome." 
She  looked  up,  smiling  through  her 
tears,  for  the  sudden  happiness  had 
moistened  the  drooping  lids. 

"  You  are  very  kind,  Signor  Grandi. 
Signor  Cardegna  is,  I  believe,  a  good 
friend  of  mine.  You  say  he  will  be 
here  ?  " 

"  I  received  a  letter  from  him  to-day, 
dated  in  Rome,  in  which  he  tells  me  that 
he  will  start  immediately.  He  may  be 
here  to-morrow  morning,"  I  answered. 
Hedwig  had  regained  her  composure, 
perhaps  because  she  was  reassured  by 
my  manner  of  speaking  about  Nino.  I, 
however,  was  anxious  to  hear  from  her 
own  lips  some  confirmation  of  my  sus- 
picions concerning  the  baron.  "  I  have 
no  doubt,"  I  continued,  presently,  "  that, 
with  your  consent,  my  boy  will  be  able 
to  deliver  you  from  this  prison  "  —  I 
used  the  word  at  a  venture.  Had  Hed- 
wig suffered  less,  and  been  less  cruelly 
tormented,  she  would  have  rebuked  me 
for  the  expression.  But  I  recalled  her 
to  her  position,  and  her  self-control  gave 
way  at  once. 

"  Oh,  you  are  right  to  call  it  a  prison ! " 
she  cried.  "  It  is  as  much  a  prison  as 
this  chamber  hewed  out  of  the  rock, 
where  so  many  a  wretch  has  languished 
hopelessly ;  a  prison  from  which  I  am 
daily  taken  out  into  the  sweet  sun,  to 
breathe  and  be  kept  alive,  and  to  taste 
how  joyful  a  thing  liberty  must  be ! 
And  every  day  I  am  brought  back,  and 
told  that  I  may  be  free  if  I  will  consent. 
Consent !  God  of  mercy  !  "  she  moaned, 
in  a  sudden  tempest  of  passionate  de- 
spair. "  Consent  ever  to  belong,  body 
—  and  soul  —  to  be  touched,  polluted, 
desecrated,  by  that  inhuman  monster ; 
sold  to  him,  to  a  creature  without  pity, 
whose  heart  is  a  toad,  a  venomous  creep- 


A  Roman  Singer. 


ing  thing,  —  sold  to  him  for  this  life,  and 
to  the  vengeance  of  God  hereafter ;  bar- 
tered, traded,  and  told  that  I  am  so  vile 
and  lost  that  the  very  price  1  am  offered 
is  an  honor  to  me,  being  so  much  more 
than  my  value."  She  came  toward  me 
as  she  spoke,  and  the  passionate,  unshed 
tears  that  were  in  her  seemed  to  choke 
her,  so  that  her  voice  was  hoarse. 

"  And  for  what  —  for  what  ?  "  she 
cried  wildly,  seizing  my  arm  and  look- 
ing fiercely  into  my  eyes.  "  For  what, 
I  say  ?  Because  I  gave  him  a  poor 
rose  ;  because  I  let  him  see  me  once ;  be- 
cause I  loved  his  sweet  voice ;  because 
—  because  —  I  love  him,  and  will  love 
him,  and  do  love  him,  though  I  die  !  " 

The  girl  was  in  a  frenzy  of  passion 
and  love  and  hate  all  together,  and  did 
not  count  her  words.  The  white  heat 
of  her  tormented  soul  blazed  from  her 
pale  face  and  illuminated  every  feature, 
though  she  was  turned  from  the  light, 
and  she  shook  my  arm  in  her  grasp  so 
that  it  pained  me.  The  marble  was 
burned  in  the  fire,  and  must  consume 
itself  to  ashes.  The  white  and  calm 
statue  was  become  a  pillar  of  flame  in 
the  life-and-death  struggle  for  love.  1 
strove  to  speak,  but  could  not,  for  fear 
and  wonder  tied  my  tongue.  And  in- 
deed she  gave  me  short  time  to  think. 

"  I  tell  you  I  love  him,  as  he  loves 
me,"  she  continued,  her  voice  trembling 
upon  the  rising  cadence,  "  with  all  my 
whole  being.  Tell  him  so.  Tell  him 
he  must  save  me,  and  that  only  he  can : 
that  for  his  sake  I  am  tortured,  and 
scorned,  and  disgraced,  and  sold ;  my 
body  thrown  to  dogs,  and  worse  than 
dogs ;  my  soul  given  over  to  devils  that 
tempt  me  to  kill  and  be  free,  —  by  my 
own  father,  for  his  sake.  Tell  him  that 
these  hands  he  kissed  are  wasted  with 
wringing  small  pains  from  each  other, 
but  the  greater  pain  drives  them  to  do 
worse.  Tell  him,  good  sir,  —  you  are 
kind  and  love  him,  but  not  as  I  do,  — 
tell  him  that  this  golden  hair  of  m'aie 
has  streaks  of  white  in  these  terrible 

VOL.  LIII.  —  NO.  316.  13 

two  months  ;  that  these  eyes  he  loved 
are  worn  with  weeping.  Tell  him  "  — 

But  her  voice  failed  her,  and  she  stag- 
gered against  the  wall,  hiding  her  face 
in  her  hands.  A  trembling  breath,  a 
struggle,  a  great  wild  '  sob :  the  long- 
sealed,  tears  were  free,  and  flowed  fast 
over  her  hands. 

"  Oh,  no,  no,"  she  moaned,  "  you  must 
not  tell  him  that."  Then  choking  down 
her  agony  she  turned  to  me :  "  You 
will  not  —  you  cannot  tell  him  of  this  ? 
I  am  weak,  ill,  but  I  will  bear  every- 
thing for  —  for  him."  The  great  ef- 
fort exhausted  her,  and  I  think  that  if 
I  had  not  caught  her  she  would  have 
fallen,  and  she  would  have  hurt  herself 
very  much  on  the  stone  floor.  But  she 
is  young,  and  I  am  not  very  strong,  and 
could  not  have  held  her  up.  So  I  knelt, 
letting  her  weight  come  on  my  shoulder. 

The  fair  head  rested  pathetically 
against  my  old  coat,  and  I  tried  to  wipe 
away  her  tears  with  her  long,  golden 
hair;  for  I  had  not  any  handkerchief. 
But  very  soon  I  could  not  see  to  do  it. 
I  was  crying  myself,  for  the  pity  of  it 
all,  and  my  tears  trickled  down  and  fell 
on  her  thin  hands.  And  so  I  kneeled, 
and  she  half  lay  and  half  sat  upon  the 
floor,  with  her  head  resting  on  my  shoul- 
der. I  was  glad  then  to  be  old,  for  I 
felt  that  I  had  a  right  to  comfort  her. 

Presently  she  looked  up  into  my  face, 
and  saw  that  I  was  weeping.  She  did 
not  speak,  but  found  her  little  lace  hand- 
kerchief, and  pressed  it  to  my  eyes,  — 
first  to  one,  and  then  to  the  other ;  and 
the  action  brought  a  faint  maidenly  flush 
to  her  cheeks  through  all  her  own  sor- 
row. A  daughter  could  not  have  done  it 
more  kindly. 

"  My  child,"  I  said  at  last,  "  be  sure 
that  your  secret  is  safe  with  me.  But 
there  is  one  coming  with  whom  it  will 
be  safer." 

"  You  are  so  good,"  she  said,  and  her 
head  sank  once  more,  and  nestled  against 
my  breast,  so  that  I  could  just  see  the 
bright  tresses  through  my  gray  beard. 


A  Roman  Singer. 


But  in  a  moment  she  looked  up  again, 
and  made  as  though  she  would  rise  ;  and 
then  I  helped  her,  and  we  both  stood  on 
our  feet. 

Poor,  beautiful,  tormented  Hedwig ! 
I  can  remember  it,  and  call  up  the 
whole  picture  to  my  mind.  She  still 
leaned  on  my  arm,  and  looked  up  to  me, 
her  loosened  hair  all  falling  back  upon 
her  shoulders  ;  and  the  wonderful  lines 
of  her  delicate  face  seemed  made  ethe- 
real and  angelic  by  her  sufferings. 

"  My  dear,"  I  said  at  last,  smooth- 
ing her  golden  hair  with  my  hand,  as 
I  thought  her  mother  would  do,  if  she 
had  a  mother,  —  "  my  dear,  your  inter- 
view with  my  boy  may  be  a  short  one, 
and  you  may  not  have  an  opportunity 
to  meet  at  all  for  days.  If  it  does  not 
pain  you  too  much,  will  you  tell  me 
just  what  your  troubles  are,  here  ?  I 
can  then  tell  him,  so  that  you  can  save 
the  time  when  you  are  together."  She 
gazed  into  my  eyes  for  some  seconds,  as 
though  to  prove  me,  whether  I  were  a 
true  man. 

"  I  think  you  are  right,"  she  an- 
swered, taking  courage.  "  I  will  tell  you 
in  two  words.  My  father  treats  me  as 
though  I  had  committed  some  unpardon- 
able crime,  which  I  do  not  at  all  under- 
stand. He  says  my  reputation  is  ruined. 
Surely,  that  is  not  true  ?  "  She  asked 
the  question  so  innocently  and  simply 
that  I  smiled. 

"  No,  my  dear,  it  is  not  true,"  I  re- 

"  I  am  sure  I  cannot  understand  it," 
she  continued ;  "  but  he  says  so,  and 
insists  that  my  only  course  is  to  accept 
what  he  calls  the  advantageous  offer 
which  has  suddenly  presented  itself. 
He  insists  very  roughly."  She  shud- 
dered slightly.  "  He  gives  me  no  peace. 
It  appears  that  this  creature  wrote  to 
ask  my  father  for  my  hand,  when  we 
left  Rome,  two  months  ago.  The  letter 
was  forwarded,  and  my  father  began  at 
once  to  tell  me  that  I  must  make  up  my 
mind  to  the  marriage.  At  first  I  used 

to  be  very  angry ;  but  seeing  we  Were 
alone,  I  finally  determined  to  seem  in- 
different, and  not  to  answer  him  when 
he  talked  about  it.  Then  he  thought  my 
spirit  was  broken,  and  he  sent  for  Baron 
Benoni,  who  arrived  a  fortnight  ago. 
Do  you  know  him,  Signer  Grandi  ?  You 
came  to  see  him,  so  I  suppose  you  do." 
The  same  look  of  hatred  and  loathing 
came  to  her  face  that  I  had  noticed  when 
Benoni  and  I  met  her  in  the  hall. 

"  Yes,  I  know  him.  He  is  a  traitor, 
a  villain,"  I  said  earnestly. 

"  Yes,  and  more  than  that.  But  he 
is  a  great  banker  in  Russia  "  — 

"  A  banker  ? "  I  asked,  in  some  as- 

"  Did  you  not  know  it  ?  Yes  ;  he 
is  very  rich,  and  has  a  great  firm,  if  that 
is  the  name  for  it.  But  he  wanders  in- 
cessantly, and  his  partners  take  care  of 
his  affairs.  My  father  says  that  I  shall 

•/  */ 

marry  him,  or  end  my  days  here." 

"  Unless  you  end  his  for  him !  "  I 
cried  indignantly. 

"  Hush ! "  said  she,  and  trembled 
violently.  "He  is  my  father,  you 
know,"  she  added,  with  sudden  earnest- 

"  But  you  cannot  consent  "  —  I  be- 

"  Consent !  "  she  interrupted,  with  a 
bitter  laugh.  "  I  will  die  rather  than 

"I  mean,  you  cannot  consent  to  be 
shut  up  in  this  valley  forever." 

"  If  need  be,  I  will,"  she  said,  in  a  low 

"  There  is  no  need,"  I  whispered. 

"  You  do  not  know  my  father.  He 
is  a  man  of  iron,"  she  answered  sorrow- 

"  You  do  not  know  my  boy.  He  is 
a  man  of  his  word,"  I  replied. 

We  were  both  silent,  for  we  both 
knew  very  well  what  our  words  meant. 
From  such  a  situation  there  could  be 
but  one  escape. 

"  I  think  you  ought  to  go  now,"  she 
said  at  last.  "  If  I  were  missed  it  would 


A  Roman  Singer. 


all  be  over.  But  I  am  sorry  to  let  you 
go,  you  are  so  kind.  How  can  you  let 
me  know "  —  She  stopped,  with  a 
blush,  and  stooped  to  raise  the  lamp 
from  the  floor. 

"  Can  you  not  meet  here  to-morrow 
night,  when  they  are  asleep?"  I  sug- 
gested, knowing  what  her  question  would 
have  been. 

"  I  will  send  the  same  man  to  you  to- 
morrow evening,  and  let  you  know  what 
is  possible,"  she  said.  "  And  now  I  will 
show  you  the  way  out  of  my  house," 
she  added,  with  the  first  faint  shadow 
of  a  smile.  With  the  slight  gilt  lamp  in 
her  hand,  she  went  out  of  the  little  rock 
chamber,  listened  a  moment,  and  began 
to  descend  the  steps. 

"  But  the  key  ?  "  I  asked,  following 
her  light  footsteps  with  my  heavier  tread. 

"It  is  in  the  door,"  she  answered, 
and  went  on. 

When  we  readied  the  bottom,  we 
found  it  as  she  had  said.  The  servant 
had  left  the  key  on  the  inside,  and  with 
some  difficulty  I  turned  the  bolts.  We 
stood  for  one  moment  in  the  narrow 
space,  where  the  lowest  step  was  set 
close  against  the  door.  Her  eyes  flashed 
strangely  in  the  lamplight. 

"  How  easy  it  would  be  ! "  I  said,  un- 
derstanding her  glance.  She  nodded, 
and  pushed  me  gently  out  into  the  street ; 
and  I  closed  the  door,  and  leaned  against 
it  as  she  locked  it. 

"  Good-night,"  she  said  from  the  other 
side,  and  I  put  my  mouth  to  the  key- 
hole. "  Good-night.  Courage  !  "  I  an- 
swered. I  could  hear  her  lightly  mount- 
ing the  stone  steps.  It  seemed  wonder- 
ful to  me  that  she  should  not  be  afraid 
to  go  back  alone.  But  love  makes  peo- 
ple brave. 

The  moon  had  risen  higher  during 
the  time  I  had  been  within,  and  I  strolled 
round  the  base  of  the  rock,  lighting  a 
cigar  as  I  went.  The  terrible  adven- 
ture I  had  dreaded  was  now  over,  and  I 
felt  myself  again.  In  truth,  it  was  a 
curious  thing  to  happen  to  a  man  of  my 

years  and  my  habits  ;  but  the  things  I 
had  heard  had  so  much  absorbed  my  at- 
tention that,  while  the  interview  lasted, 
I  had  forgotten  the  strange  manner  of 
the  meeting.  I  was  horrified  at  the  ex- 
tent of  the  girl's  misery,  more  felt  than 
understood  from  her  brief  description 
and  passionate  outbreaks.  There  is  no 
mistaking  the  strength  of  a  suffering 
that  wastes  and  consumes  the  mortal 
part  of  us  as  wax  melts  at  the  fire. 

And  Benoni  —  the  villain  !  He  had 
written  to  ask  Heclwig  in  marriage  be- 
fore he  came  to  see  me  in  Rome.  There 
was  something  fiendish  in  his  almost 
inviting  me  to  see  his  triumph,  and  I 
cursed  him  as  I  kicked  the  loose  stones 
in  the  road  with  my  heavy  shoes.  So 
he  was  a  banker,  as  well  as  a  musician 
and  a  wanderer.  Who  would  have 
thought  it  ? 

"  One  thing  is  clear,"  I  said  to  myself, 
as  I  went  to  bed :  "  unless  something 
is  done  immediately,  that  poor  girl  will 
consume  herself  and  die."  And  all  that 
night  her  poor  thin  face  and  staring 
eyes  were  in  my  dreams  ;  so  that  I  woke 
up  several  times,  thinking  I  was  trying 
to  comfort  her,  and  could  not.  But  to- 
ward dawn  I  felt  sure  that  Nino  was 
coming,  and  that  all  would  be  well. 

I  was  chatting  with  my  old  landlady 
the  next  morning,  and  smoking  to  pass 
the  time,  when  there  was  suddenly  a 
commotion  in  the  street.  That  is  to 
say,  some  one  was  arriving,  and  all  the 
little  children  turned  out  in  a  body  to 
run  after  the  stranger,  while  the  old 
women  came  to  their  doors  with  their 
knitting,  and  squinted  under  the  bright 
sunlight  to  see  what  was  the  matter. 

It  was  Nino,  of  course  —  my  own 
boy,  riding  on  a  stout  mule,  with  a  coun- 
tryman by  his  side  upon  another.  He 
was  dressed  in  plain  gray  clothes,  and 
wore  high  boots.  His  great  felt  hat 
drooped  half  across  his  face,  and  hid  his 
eyes  from  me ;  but  there  was  no  mistak- 
ing the  stern,  square  jaw  and  the  close, 
even  lips.  I  ran  toward  him,  and  called 


A  Roman  Singer. 


him  by  name.  In  a  moment  he  was  off 
his  beast,  and  we  embraced  tenderly. 

"  Have  you  seen  her  ?  "  were  the  h'rst 
words  he  spoke.  I  nodded,  and  hurried 
him  into  the  house  where  I  lived,  fear- 
ful lest  some  mischance  should  bring  the 
party  from  the  castle  riding  by.  He 
sent  his  man  with  the  mules  to  the  inn, 
and  when  we  were  at  last  alone  together 
he  threw  himself  into  a  chair,  and  took 
off  his  hat. 

Nino  too  was  changed  in  the  two 
months  that  had  passed.  He  had  trav- 
eled far,  had  sung  lustily,  and  had  been 
applauded  to  the  skies  ;  and  he  had  seen 
the  great  world.  But  there  was  more 
than  all  that  in  his  face.  There  were 
lines  of  care  and  of  thought  that  well 
became  his  masculiue  features.  There 
was  a  something  in  his  look  that  told  of 
a  set  purpose,  and  there  was  a  light  in 
his  dark  eyes  that  spoke  a  world  of  warn- 
ing to  any  one  who  might  dare  to  thwart 
him.  But  he  seemed  thinner,  and  his 
cheeks  were  as  white  as  the  paper  I 
write  on. 

Some  men  are  born  masters,  and  never 
once  relax  the  authority  they  exercise 
on  those  around  them.  Nino  has  always 
commanded  me,  as  he  seems  to  command 
everybody  else,  in  the  fewest  words  pos- 
sible. But  he  is  so  true  and  honest 
and  brave  that  all  who  know  him  love 
him ;  and  that  is  more  than  can  be  said 
for  most  artists.  As  he  sat  in  his  chair, 
hesitating  what  question  to  ask  first,  or 
waiting  for  me  to  speak,  I  thought  that 
if  Hedwig  von  Lira  had  searched  the 
whole  world  for  a  man  able  to  deliver 
her  from  her  cruel  father  and  from  her 
hated  lover  she  could  have  chosen  no 
better  champion  than  Nino  Cardegna, 
the  singer.  Of  course  you  all  say  that 
I  am  infatuated  with  the  boy,  and  that  I 
helped  him  to  do  a  reckless  thing,  sim- 
ply because  I  was  blinded  by  my  fond- 
ness. But  I  maintain,  and  shall  ever 
hold,  that  Nino  did  right  in  this  matter, 
and  I  am  telling  my  story  merely  in  or- 
der that  honest  men  may  judge. 

He  sat  by  the  window,  and  the  sun 
poured  through  the  panes  upon  his  curl- 
ing hair,  his  traveling  dress,  and  his  dusty 
boots.  The  woman  of  the  house  brought 


in  some  wine  and  water ;  but  he  only 
sipped  the  water,  and  would  not  touch 
the  wine. 

"  You  are  a  dear,  kind  father  to  me," 
he  said,  putting  out  his  hand  from  where 
he  sat,  "  and  before  we  talk  I  must  tell 
you  how  much  I  thank  you."  Simple 
words,  as  they  look  on  paper ;  but  an- 
other man  could  not  have  said  so  much 
in  an  hour,  as  his  voice  and  look  told 


"Nino  mio,"  I  began,  "I  saw  the 
contessina  last  night.  She  is  in  a  very 
dramatic  and  desperate  situation.  But 
she  greets  you,  and  looks  to  you  to  save 
her  from  her  troubles."  Nino's  face  was 
calm,  but  his  voice  trembled  a  little  as 
he  answered :  — 

"  Tell  me  quickly,  please,  what  the 
troubles  are." 

"  Softly  —  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it. 
You  must  know  that  your  friend  Benoni 
is  a  traitor  to  you,  and  is  here.  Do  not 
look  astonished.  He  has  made  up  his 
mind  to  marry  the  contessina,  and  she 
says  she  will  die  rather  than  take  him, 
which  is  quite  right  of  her."  At  the 
latter  piece  of  news,  Nino  sprang  from 
his  chair. 

"  You  do  not  seriously  mean  that  her 
father  is  trying  to  make  her  marry  Be- 
noni ?  "  he  cried. 

"  It  is  infamous,  my  dear  boy  ;  but  it 
is  true." 

"  Infamous  !  I  should  think  you 
could  find  a  stronger  word.  How  did 
you  learn  this  ?  "  I  detailed  the  cir- 
cumstances of  our  meeting  on  the  pre- 
vious night.  While  I  talked,  Nino  lis- 
tened with  intense  interest,  and  his  face 
changed  its  look  from  anger  to  pity,  and 
from  pity  to  horror.  When  I  had  fin- 
ished, he  was  silent. 


A  Roman  Singer. 


"  You  can  see  for  yourself,"  I  said, 
"  that  the  case  is  urgent." 

"  I  will  take  her  away,"  said  Nino,  at 
last.  "It  will  be  very  unpleasant  for 
the  count.  He  would  have  been  wiser 
to  allow  her  to  have  her  own  way." 

"  Do  nothing  rash,  Nino  mio.  Con- 
sider a  little  what  the  consequences 
would  be  if  you  were  caught  in  the  act 
of  violently  carrying  off  the  daughter  of 
a  man  as  powerful  as  Von  Lira." 

"  Bah !  You  talk  of  his  power  as 
though  we  lived  under  the  Colonnesi 
and  the  Orsini,  instead  of  under  a  free 
monarchy.  If  I  am  once  married  to 
her,  what  have  I  to  fear  ?  Do  you  think 
the  count  would  go.  to  law  about  his 
daughter's  reputation  ?  Or  do  you  sup- 
pose he  would  try  to  murder  me  ?  " 

"  I  would  do  both,  in  his  place,"  I  an- 
swered. "  But  perhaps  you  are  right, 
and  he  will  yield  when  he  sees  that  he 
is  outwitted.  Think  again,  and  suppose 
that  the  contessiua  herself  objects  to 
such  a  step." 

"  That  is  a  different  matter.  She 
shall  do  nothing  save  by  her  own  free 
will.  You  do  not  imagine  I  would  try 
to  take  her  away  unless  she  were  will- 
ing?" He  sat  down  again  beside  me, 
and  affectionately  laid  one  hand  on  my 

"  Women,  Nino,  are  women,"  I  re- 

"Unless  they  are  angels,"  he  as- 

"  Keep  the  angels  for  Paradise,  and 
beware  of  taking-  them  into  considera- 
tion in  this  working-day  world.  I  have 
often  told  you,  my  boy,  that  I  am  older 
than  you." 

u  As  if  I  doubted  that ! "  he  laughed. 

"  Very  well.  I  know  something  about 
women.  A  hundred  women  will  tell  you 
that  they  are  ready  to  flee  with  you  ;  but 
not  more  than  one  in  the  hundred  will 
really  leave  everything  and  follow  you 
to  the  end  of  the  world,  when  the  mo- 
ment comes  for  running  away.  They 
always  make  a  fuss  at  the  last,  and  say 

it  is  too  dangerous,  and  you  may  be 
caught.  That  is  the  way  of  them.  You 
will  be  quite  ready  with  a  ladder  of 
ropes,  like  one  of  Boccaccio's  men,  and 
a  roll  of  banknotes  for  the  journey, 
and  smelling-salts,  and  a  cushion  for  the 
puppy  dog,  and  a  separate  conveyance 
for  the  maid,  just  according  to  the  di- 
rections she  has  given  you  ;  then,  at  the 
very  last,  she  will  perhaps  say  that  she 
is  afraid  of  hurting  her  father's  feelings 
by  leaving  him  without  any  warning. 
Be  careful,  Nino  !  " 

"  As  for  that,"  he  answered  sullenly 
enough,  "  if  she  will  not,  she  will  not ; 
and  I  would  not  attempt  to  persuade 
her  against  her  inclination.  But  unless 
you  have  very  much  exaggerated  what 
you  saw  in  her  face,  she  will  be  ready 
at  five  minutes'  notice.  It  must  be  very 
like  hell,  up  there  in  that  castle,  I  should 

"  Messer  Diavolo,  who  rules  over  the 
house,  will  not  let  his  prey  escape  him 
so  easily  as  you  think." 

"  Her  father  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  No ;  Benoni.  There  is  no  creature 
so  relentless  as  an  old  man  in  pursuit  of 
a  young  woman." 

"  I  am  not  afraid  of  Benoni." 

"  You  need  not  be  afraid  of  her  fa- 
ther," said  I,  laughing.  "  He  is  lame,  and 
cannot  run  after  you."  I  do  not  know 
why  it  is  that  we  Romans  laugh  at  lame 
people  ;  we  are  sorry  for  them,  of  course, 
as  we  are  for  other  cripples. 

"  There  is  something  more  than  fear 
in  the  matter,"  said  Nino  seriously.  "  It 
is  a  great  thing  to  have  upon  one's  soul." 

"  What  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  To  take  a  daughter  away  from  her 
father  without  his  consent,  —  or  at  least 
without  consulting  him.  I  would  not 
like  to  do  it." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  ask  the  old  gentle- 
man's consent  before  eloping  with  his 
daughter  ?  You  are  a  little  donkey, 
Nino,  upon  my  word." 

"  Donkey,  or  anything  else  you  like, 
but  I  will  act  like  a  galantuomo.  I 


A  Roman  Singer. 


will  see  the  count,  and  ask  him  once 
more  whether  he  is  willing  to  let  his 
daughter  marry  me.  If  not,  so  much 
the  worse ;  he  will  be  warned." 

"  Look  here,  Nino,"  I  said,  astonished 
at  the  idea.  "  I  have  taught  you  a  lit- 
tle logic.  Suppose  you  meant  to  steal  a 
horse,  instead  of  a  woman.  Would  you 
go  to  the  owner  of  the  horse,  with  your 
hat  in  your  hand,  and  say,  '  I  trust  your 
worship  will  not  be  offended  if  I  steal 
this  horse,  which  seems  to  be  a  good  an- 
imal and  pleases  me ; '  and  then  would 
you  expect  him  to  allow  you  to  steal 
his  horse  ?  " 

"  Sor  Cornelio,  the  case  is  not  the 
same.  Women  have  a  right  to  be  free, 
and  to  marry  whom  they  please ;  but 
horses  are  slaves.  However,  as  I  am 
not  a  thief,  I  would  certainly  ask  the 
man  for  the  horse ;  and  if  he  refused  it, 
and  I  conceived  that  I  had  a  right  to 
have  it,  I  would  take,  it  by  force,  and 
not  by  stealth." 

"  It  appears  to  me  that  if  you  meant 
to  get  possession  of  what  was  not  yours 
you  might  as  well  get  it  in  the  easiest 
possible  way,"  I  objected.  "  But  we 
need  not  argue  the  case.  There  is  a 
much  better  reason  why  you  should  not 
consult  the  count." 

"  I  do  not  believe  it,"  said  Nino  stub- 

"  Nevertheless,  it  is  so.  The  Contes- 
sina  di  Lira  is  desperately  unhappy,  and 
if  nothing  is  done  she  may  die.  Young 
women  have  died  of  broken  hearts  be- 
fore now.  You  have  no  right  to  endan- 
ger her  life  by  risking  failure.  Answer 
me  that,  if  you  can,  and  I  will  grant  you 
are  a  cunning  sophist,  but  not  a  good 

"  There  is  reason  in  what  you  say 
now,"  he  answered.  "  I  had  not  thought 
of  that  desperateness  of  the  case,  which 
you  speak  of.  You  have  seen  her."  He 
buried  his  face  in  his  hand,  and  seemed 
to  be  thinking. 

"  Yes,  I  have  seen  her,  and  I  wish 
you  had  been  in  my  place.  You  would 

think  differently  about  asking  her  fa- 
ther's leave  to  rescue  her."  From  having 
been  anxious  to  prevent  anything  rash, 
it  seemed  that  I  was  now  urging  him 
into  the  very  jaws  of  danger.  I  think 
that  Hedwig's  face  was  before  me,  as 
it  had  been  in  reality  on  the  previous 
evening.  "  As  Curione  said  to  Caesar, 
delay  is  injurious  to  any  one  who  is  fully 
prepared  for  action.  I  remember  also 
to  have  read  somewhere  that  such  waste 
of  time  in  diplomacy  and  palavering  is 
the  favorite  resource  of  feeble  and  timid 
minds,  who  regard  the  use  of  dilatory 
and  ambiguous  measures  as  an  evidence 
of  the  most  admirable  and  consummate 

"  Oh,  you  need  not  use  so  much  learn- 
ing with  me,"  said  Nino.  "  I  assure  you 
that  I  will  be  neither  dilatory  nor  am- 
biguous. In  fact,  I  will  go  at  once,  with- 
out even  dusting  my  boots,  and  I  will 
say,  Give  me  your  daughter,  if  you  cat) ; 
and  if  you  cannot,  I  will  still  hope  to 
marry  her.  He  will  probably  say  '  No,' 
and  then  I  will  carry  her  off.  It  ap- 
pears to  me  that  is  simple  enough." 

"  Take  my  advice,  Nino.  Carry  her 
off  first,  and  ask  permission  afterwards. 
It  is  much  better.  The  real  master  up 
there  is  Benoni,  I  fancy,  and  not  the 
count.  Benoni  is  a  gentleman  who  will 
give  you  much  trouble.  If  you  go  now 
to  see  Hedwig's  father,  Benoni  will  be 
present  at  the  interview."  Nino  was 
silent,  and  sat  stretching  his  legs  before 
him,  his  head  on  his  breast.  "  Beuoni," 
I  continued,  "  has  made  up  his  mind  to 
succeed.  He  has  probably  taken  this 
fancy  into  his  head  out  of  pure  wicked- 
ness. Perhaps  he  is  bored,  and  really 
wants  a  wife.  But  I  believe  he  is  a 
man  who  delights  in  cruelty  and  would 
as  lief  break  the  contessina's  heart  by 
getting  rid  of  you  as  by  marrying  her." 
I  saw  that  he  was  not  listening. 

"  I  have  an  idea,"  he  said  at  last. 
"  You  are  not  very  wise,  Messer  Corne- 
lio, and  you  counsel  me  to  be  prudent 
and  to  be  rash  in  the  same  breath." 


A  Roman  Singer. 


"  You  make  very  pretty  compliments, 
Sor  Niuo,"  I  answered  tartly.  He  put 
out  his  hand  deprecatingly. 

"  You  are  as  wise  as  any  man  can  be 
who  is  not  in  love,"  he  said,  looking  at 
me  with  his  great  eyes.  "  But  love  is 
the  best  counselor." 

"  What  is  your  idea  ?  "  I  asked,  some- 
what pacified. 

"  You  say  they  ride  together  every 
day.  Yes  —  very  good.  The  contessina 
will  not  ride  to-day  ;  partly  because  she 
will  be  worn  out  with  fatigue  from  last 
night's  interview,  and  partly  because 
she  will  make  an  effort  to  discover 
whether  I  have  arrived  to-day  or  not. 
You  can  count  on  that." 

"  I  imagine  so." 

"  Very  well,"  he  continued  ;  "  in  that 
case,  one  of  two  things  will  happen  : 
either  the  count  will  go  out  alone,  or 
they  will  all  stay  at  home." 

"Why  will  Benoni  not  go  out  with 
the  count  ?  " 

"  Because  Benoni  will  hope  to  see 
Hedwig  alone,  if  he  stays  at  home,  and 
the  count  will  be  very  glad  to  give  him 
the  opportunity." 

"  I  think  you  are  right,  Nino.  You 
are  not  so  stupid  as  I  thought." 

"  In  war,"  continued  the  boy,  "  a  gen- 
eral gains  a  great  advantage  by  sepa- 
rating his  adversary's  forces.  If  the 
count  goes  out  alone,  I  will  present  my- 
self to  him  in  the  road,  and  tell  him 
what  I  want." 

"]So\v  you  are  foolish  again.  You 
should,  on  the  contrary,  enter  the  house 
when  the  count  is  away,  and  take  the 
signorina  with  you  then  and  there.  Be- 
fore he  could  return  you  would  be  miles 
on  the  road  to  Rome." 

"  In  the  first  place,  I  tell  you  once 
and  for  all,  Sor  Cornelio,"  he  said  slow- 
ly, "  that  such  an  action  would  be  dis- 
honorable, and  I  will  not  do  anything 
of  the  kind.  Moreover,  you  forget  that, 
if  I  followed  your  advice,  I  should  find 
Benoni  at  home,  —  the  very  man  from 
whom  you  think  I  have  everything  to 

fear.  No  ;  I  must  give  the  count  one 
fair  chance."  I  was  silent,  for  I  saw  he 
was  determined,  and  yet  I  would  not  let 
him  think  I  was  satisfied. 

The  idea  of  losing  an  advantage  by 
giving  an  enemy  any  sort  of  warning 
before  the  attack  seemed  to  me  novel  in 
the  extreme ;  but  I  comprehended  that 
Nino  saw  in  his  scheme  a  satisfaction  to 
his  conscience,  and  smelled  in  it  a  musty 
odor  of  forgotten  knight-errantry  that 
he  had  probably  learned  to  love  in  his 
theatrical  experiences.  I  had  certainly 
not  expected  that  Nino  Cardegna,  the 
peasant  child,  would  turn  out  to  be  the 
pink  of  chivalry  and  the  mirror  of  hon- 
or. But  I  could  not  help  admiring  his 
courage,  and  wondering  if  it  would  not 
play  him  false  at  the  perilous  moment. 
I  did  not  half  know  him  then,  though 
he  had  been  with  me  for  so  many  years. 
But  I  was  very  anxious  to  ascertain 
from  him  what  he  meant  to  do,  for  I 
feared  that  his  bold  action  would  make 
trouble,  and  I  had  visions  of  the  count 
and  Benoui  together  taking  sudden  and 
summary  vengeance  on  myself. 

"  Nino,"  I  said,  "  I  have  made  great 
sacrifices  to  help  you  in  finding  these 
people,"  —  I  would  not  tell  him  I  had 
sold  my  vineyard  to  make  preparations 
for  a  longer  journey,  though  he  has 
since  found  it  out,  —  "  but  if  you  are 
going  to  do  anything  rash  I  will  get  on 
my  little  ass,  and  ride  a  few  miles  from 
the  village,  until  it  is  over."  Nino 
laughed  aloud. 

"  My  dear  professor,"  he  said,  "  do 
not  be  afraid.  I  will  give  you  plenty 
of  time  to  get  out  of  the  way.  Mean- 
while, the  contessina  is  certain  to  send 
the  confidential  servant  of  whom  you 
speak,  to  give  me  instructions.  If  I  am 
not  here,  you  ought  to  be,  in  order  to  re- 
ceive the  message.  Now  listen  to  me." 

I  prepared  to  be  attentive  and  to  hear 
his  scheme.  I  was  by  no  means  expect- 
ing the  plan  he  proposed. 

"  The  count  may  take  it  into  his  head 
to  ride  at  a  different  hour,  if  he  rides 


A  Roman  Singer. 


alone,"  he  began.  "  I  will  therefore 
have  my  mule  saddled  now,  and  will  sta- 
tion my  man  —  a  countryman  from  Su- 
biaco  and  good  for  any  devilry  —  in  some 
place  where  he  can  watch  the  entrance 
to  the  house,  or  the  castle,  or  whatever 
you  call  this  place.  So  soon  as  he  sees 
the  count  come  out  he  will  call  me.  As 
a  man  can  ride  in  only  one  of  two  di- 
rections in  this  valley,  I  shall  have  no 
trouble,  whatever  in  meeting  the  old 
gentleman,  even  if  I  cannot  overtake 
him  with  my  mule." 

"  Have  you  any  arms,  Nino  ?  " 
"  No.  I  do  not  want  weapons  to  face 
an  old  man  in  broad  daylight ;  and  he 
is  too  much  of  a  soldier  to  attack  me  if 
I  am  defenceless.  If  the  servant  comes 
after  I  am  gone,  you  must  remember 
every  detail  of  what  he  says,  and  you 
must  also  arrange  a  little  matter  with 
him.  Here  is  money,  as  much  as  will 
keep  any  Roman  servant  quiet.  The 
man  will  be  rich  before  we  have  done 
with  him.  I  will  write  a  letter,  which 
he  must  deliver  ;  but  he  must  also  know 
what  he  has  to  do. 

"  At  twelve  o'clock  to-night  the  con- 
tessina  must  positively  be  at  the  door 
of  the  staircase  by  which  you  entered 
yesterday.  Positively  —  do  you  under- 
stand ?  She  will  then  choose  for  her- 
self between  what  she  is  suffering  now 
arid  flight  with  me.  If  she  chooses  to 
fly,  my  mules  and  my  countryman  will 
be  ready.  The  servant  who  admits  me 
had  better  make  the  best  of  his  way  to 
Rome,  with  the  money  he  has  got. 
There  will  be  difficulties  in  the  way  of 
getting  the  contessina  to  the  staircase, 
especially  as  the  count  will  be  in  a  tow- 
ering passion  with  me,  and  will  not  sleep 
much.  But  he  will  not  have  the  small- 
.est  idea  that  I  shall  act  so  suddenly,  and 
he  will  fancy  that  when  once  his  daugh- 
ter is  safe  within  the  walls  for  the  night 
she  will  not  think  of  escaping.  I  do 
not  believe  he  even  knows  of  the  ex- 
istence of  this  staircase.  At  all  events, 
it  appears,  from  your  success  in  bribing 

the  first  man  you  met,  that  the  ser- 
vants are  devoted  to  her  interests  and 
their  own,  and  not  at  all  to  those  of  her 

"  I  cannot  conceive,  Nino,"  said  I, 
"  why  you  do  not  put  this  bold  plan  into 
execution  without  seeing  the  count  first, 
and  making  the  whole  thing  so  danger- 
ous. If  he  takes  alarm  in  the  night,  he 
will  catch  you  fast  enough  on  his  good 
horses,  before  you  are  at  Trevi." 

"I  am  determined  to  act  as  I  pro- 
pose," said  Nino,  "  because  it  is  a  thou- 
sand times  more  honorable,  and  because 
I, am  certain  that  the  contessina  would 
not  have  me  act  otherwise.  She  will 
also  see  for  herself  that  flight  is  best ; 
for  I  am  sure  the  count  will  make  a 
scene  of  some  kind  when  he  conies 
home  from  meeting  me.  If  she  knows 
she  can  escape  to-night  she  will  not  suf- 
fer from  what  he  has  to  say ;  but  she 
will  understand  that  without  the  pros- 
pect of  freedom  she  would  suffer  very 

"  Where  did  you  learn  to  understand 
women,  my  boy  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  do  not  understand  women  in  gen- 
eral," he  answered,  "but  I  understand 
very  well  the  only  woman  who  exists 
for  me  personally.  I  know  that  she  is 
the  soul  of  honor,  and  that  at  the  same 
time  she  has  enough  common  sense  to 
perceive  the  circumstances  of  her  situa- 

"  But  how  will  you  make  sure  of  not 
being  overtaken  ?  "  I  objected,  making 
a  last  feeble  stand  against  his  plan. 

"  That  is  simple  enough.  My  coun- 
tryman from  Subiaco  knows  every  inch 
of  these  hills.  He  says  that  the  pass 
above  Fillettino  is  impracticable  for  any 
animals  save  men,  mules,  and  donkeys. 
A  horse  would  roll  down  at  every  turn. 
My  mules  are  the  best  of  their  kind, 
and  there  are  none  like  them  here.  By 
sunrise  I  shall  be  over  the  Serra  and 
well  on  the  way  to  Ceprano,  or  what- 
ever place  I  may  choose  for  joining  the 


A  Roman  Singer. 


"And  I?  "Will  you  leave  me  here 
to  be  murdered  by  that  Prussian  dev- 
il ?"  I  asked,  in  some  alarm. 

"  Why,  no,  padre  mio.  If  you  like, 
you  can  start  for  Rome  at  sunset,  or  as 
soon  as  I  return  from  meeting  the  count ; 
or  you  cau  get  on  your  donkey  and  go 
up  the  pass,  where  we  shall  overtake 
you.  Nobody  will  harm  you,  in  your 
disguise,  and  your  donkey  is  even  more 
sure-footed  than  my  mules.  It  will  be 
a  bright  night,  too,  for  the  moon  is  full." 

"  Well,  well,  Nino,"  said  I  at  last,  "  I 
suppose  you  will  have  your  own  way,  as 
you  always  do  in  the  world.  And  if  it 
must  be  so,  I  will  go  up  the  pass  alone, 
for  I  am  not  afraid  at  all.  It  would 
be  against  all  the  proprieties  that  you 
should  be  riding  through  a  wild  country 
alone  at  night  with  the  young  lady  you 
intend  to  marry ;  and  if  I  go  with  you 
there  will  be  nothing  to  be  said,  for 
I  am  a  very  proper  person,  and  hold  a 
responsible  position  in  Rome.  But  for 
charity's  sake,  do  not  undertake  any- 
thing of  this  kind  again  "  — 

"  Again  ? "  exclaimed  Nino,  in  sur- 
prise. "  Do  you  expect  me  to  spend  my 
life  in  getting  married,  —  not  to  say  in 
eloping  ?  " 

"Well,  I  trust  that  you  will  have 
enough  of  it  this  time." 

"  I  cannot  conceive  that  when  a  man 
has  once  married  the  woman  he  loves 
he  should  ever  look  at  another,"  said 
Nino  gravely. 

"  You  are  a  most  blessed  fellow,"  I 

Nino  found  my  writing  materials, 
which  consisted  of  a  bad  steel  pen,  some 
coarse  ruled  paper,  and  a  wretched  little 
saucer  of  ink,  and  began  writing  an 
epistle  to  the  contessina.  I  watched  him 
as  he  wrote,  and  I  smoked  a  little  to  pass 
the  time.  As  I  looked  at  him,  I  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  to-day,  at  least, 
he  was  handsome.  His  thick  hair  curled 
about  his  head,  and  his  white  skin  was 
as  pale  and  clear  as  milk.  I  thought 

that  his  complexion  had  grown  less  dark 
than  it  used  to  be,  perhaps  from  being 
so  much  in  the  theatre  at  night.  That 
takes  the  dark  blood  out  of  the  cheeks. 
But  any  woman  would  have  looked 
twice  at  him.  Besides,  there  was,  as 
there  is  now,  a  certain  marvelous  neat- 
ness and  spotlessness  about  his  dress  ; 
but  for  his  dusty  boots,  you  would  not 
have  guessed  he  had  been  traveling. 
Poor  Nino  !  When  he  had  not  a  penny 
in  the  world  but  what  he  earned  by 
copying  music,  he  used  to  spend  it  all 
with  the  washerwoman,  so  that  Mariuc- 
cia  was  often  horrified,  and  I  reproved 
him  for  the  extravagance. 

At  last  he  finished  writing,  and  put 
his  letter  into  the  only  envelope  there  was 
left.  He  gave  it  to  me,  and  said  he  would 
go  out  and  order  his  mules  to  be  ready. 

"  I  may  be  gone  all  day,"  he  said, 
"  and  I  may  return  in  a  few  hours.  I 
cannot  tell.  In  any  case,  wait  for  me, 
and  give  the  letter  and  all  the  instruc- 
tions to  the  man,  if  he  comes."  Then 
he  thanked  me  once  more  very  affec- 
tionately, and  having  embraced  me  he 
went  out. 

I  watched  from  the  window,  and  he 
looked  up  and  waved  his  hand.  I  re- 
member it  very  distinctly  —  just  how 
he  looked.  His  face  was  paler  than 
ever,  his  lips  were  close  set,  though  they 
smiled,  and  his  eyes  were  sad.  He  is  an 
incomprehensible  boy  —  he  always  was. 

I  was  left  alone,  with  plenty  of  time 
for  meditation,  and  I  assure  you  my 
reflections  were  not  pleasant.  O  love, 
love,  what  madness  you  drive  us  into, 
by  day  and  night !  Surely  it  is  better 
to  be  a  sober  professor  of  philosophy 
than  to  be  in  love,  ever  so  wildly,  or 
sorrowfully,  or  happily.  I  do  not  won- 
der that  a  parcel  of  idiots  have  tried  to 
prove  that  Dante  loved  philosophy  and 
called  it  Beatrice.  He  would  have  been 
a  sober  professor,  if  that  were  true,  and 
a  happier  man.  But  I  am  sure  it  is  not 
true,  for  I  was  once  in  love  myself. 

F.  Marion   Crawford. 


The  Vagabonds  and  Criminals  of  India.         [February, 


THE  study  of  the  vagabonds  and 
criminals  of  India  demonstrates  with 
special  force  the  purely  arbitrary  na- 
ture of  the  moral  standards  which  men 
have  set  up  for  themselves  in  different 
parts  of  the  world.  When,  in  the  West, 
Buckle  first  made  the  statement  that, 
given  a  certain  proportion  of  Frenchmen, 
Englishmen,  or  Germans,  the  average 
number  of  suicides,  murders,  and  larce- 
nies committed  by  them  could  be  accu- 
rately calculated,  it  was  feared  that  his 
statistical  treatment  would  undermine 
sound  morality.  Yet  the  Hindus  have 
so  little  doubted  that  there  must  always 
be  a  fixed  ratio  of  crime  and  vice  that 
they  have  strengthened  the  natural  cer- 
tainty by  the  influence  of  their  religion 
and  ethics.  A  few  years  ago  British 
officials  were  startled  on  finding  that 
the  census  returns  of  a  certain  Hindu 
province  included  the  names  of  thieves, 
murderers,  sorcerers,  poisoners,  and  beg- 
gars ;  but  that  these  returns  were  given 
in  all  seriousness  was  later  confirmed 
by  similar  reports  from  other  provinces. 
The  truth  is  that  in  India  crime  and 
vagrancy,  like  fighting  and  farming,  are 
regular  professions,  and  the  men  who 
follow  them  have  laws,  a  religion,  and  a 
language  all  their  own,  and  are  united 
by  ties  more  binding  than  any  which 
have  held  together  mediaeval  guilds  or 
modern  trades-unions.  Were  this  mere- 
ly the  result  of  their  efforts  to  consoli- 
date their  forces,  it  would  not  be  so  re- 
markable. Men  who  have  lived  by  il- 
legitimate means  have,  the  world  over, 
drawn  together  for  mutual  aid.  But 
the  esprit  du  corps  which  gave  power  to 
strolling  beggars  and  vagrants  in  the 
Middle  Ages,  to  Robin  Hood  and  his 
"  tough-belted  "  outlaws,  to  Spanish  and 
Italian  banditti,  and  which  to-day  stimu- 
lates the  criminal  classes  of  Europe  and 
America,  has  always  been  maintained 

in  direct  disregard  to  established  laws, 
while  that  which  exists  among  Hindu 
vagabonds  results  from  strict  adherence 
to  them.  In  one  instance  there  is  a 
rebellion  against,  in  the  other  compli- 
ance with,  social  commands.  It  would 
be  impossible  to  understand  this  ex- 
ceptional phase  of  immorality  without 
knowing  something  of  the  caste  system 
which  has  been  the  cause  of  it. 

Whether  the  four  great  castes  of 
Brahmans  or  priests,  Kshatriyas  or  war- 
riors, Vaisyas  or  merchants,  and  Sudras 
or  servants  were  formed  because  of  the 
legend  relating  the  manner  of  their  ori- 
gin from  the  head,  arms,  thighs,  and 
feet,  respectively,  of  Brahma,  or  wheth- 
er this  was  an  after-invention,  intended 
to  give  divine  sanction  to  an  existing 
state  of  affairs,  it  is  difficult  to  decide. 
But  however  that  may  be,  it  is  certain 
that  this  division  was  made  in  an  ear- 
ly age,  probably  even  before  the  end 
of  the  Vedic  period,  and  that  its  conse- 
quent religious  and  social  requirements 
have  been  of  such  primal  importance 
that,  despite  reformers  and  missionaries, 
invaders  and  conquerors,  they  have  been 
faithfully  observed  unto  the  present 
time.  The  Brahman,  who  has  outlived 
Chaldean  and  Assyrian,  Persian  and 
Egyptian  civilizations,  and  survived  Mo- 
hammedan, Mogul,  and  Christian  rule, 
is  to  the  European  traveler  of  to-day 
what  the  Pope  of  Rome  will  be  to  Ma- 
caulay's  famous  New  Zealander.  In 
almost  every  country,  class  distinctions 
have  been  continually  modified  as  men 
with  higher  culture  became  more  liberal. 
But  in  India  any  change  or  modification 
has  been  prevented  by  the  fact  that 
Hindus  of  all  stations  of  life  have  for 
long  centuries  been  taught  that  their 
highest  spiritual  and  temporal  duty  is 
to  marry  within  their  own  castes,  and 
to  follow  throughout  their  lives  the  pro- 


The  Vagabonds  and  Criminals  of  India. 


fessions  to  which  they  are  born.  That 
such  artificial  barriers  were  at  times 
overthrown  is  a  matter  of  course.  Cela 
va  sans  dire.  The  very  statutes  upon 
this  subject,  recorded  in  the  Code  of 
Manu  and  the  Institutes  of  Vishnu,  pre- 
suppose the  crimes  against  which  they 
guard.  Hindus  were  but  mortal,  and, 
notwithstanding  the  law  and  its  penal- 
ties, there  were  intermarriages.  But, 
like  the  mulatto,  who  cannot  be  ranked 
with  his  Caucasian  or  his  African  par- 
ent, the  offspring  of  these  mesalliances 
could  not  be  included  in  the  social  genus 
of  either  their  father  or  their  mother. 
The  increasing  complications  of  civilized 
life  gave  rise  to  new  forms  of  work ; 
yet  the  man  who  deserted  for  them  the 
trade  of  his  forefathers  was  isolated 
from  his  family  and  former  associates. 
The  problems  thus  raised  were  solved 
by  the  creation  of  a  multiplicity  of 
lower  castes.  But  just  as  the  ethnol- 
ogist occasionally  finds  individuals  of 
abnormal  physical  formation,  beyond 
the  limits  of  classification,  so  there  were 
some  beings  who,  because  of  their  vile 
trade,  or  still  viler  birth,  seemed  to  the 
Hindus  moral  monstrosities,  for  whom 
there  was  no  place  in  their  social  scheme. 
Strong  as  was  the  hatred  of  Greek  for 
barbarian,  or  of  Jew  for  Gentile,  it  was 
exceeded  by  that  of  the  Hindu  for  Mlek- 
kas  or  non-Aryans.  He  could  not  ignore 
the  aboriginal  inhabitants  of  the  coun- 
try which  he  had  conquered,  and  whom 
he  had  not  been  able  to  wholly  extermi- 
nate, but  he  looked  upon  them  as  crea- 
tures too  low  to  be  used  as  slaves  or 
servants,  or  even  as  beasts  of  burden. 
They  were,  in  his  estimation,  no  better 
than  unclean  animals,  from  whose  con- 
taminating contact  and  presence  it  was 
necessary  to  shield  legitimate  members 
of  society.  For  all  social  purposes  it 
was  the  same  as  if  they  did  not  exist. 
They  were  not  permitted  to  belong  to 
any  caste,  and  the  law  and  the  religion 
of  the  land  knew  them  not.  There  was 
thus,  in  the  midst  of  a  people  whose 

obligations  of  every  kind  were  defined 
with  unparalleled  exactness,  a  large  pop- 
ulation of  men  and  women  to  whom  all 
rights  and  duties  were  denied.  To  their 
numbers  were  added  those  political  and 
religious  offenders  among  men  of  caste 
for  vvhom  death  of  the  body  was  deemed 
too  merciful  a  punishment,  and  the  sons 
and  daughters  born  of  what  was  consid- 
ered the  infamous  union  of  a  Brahman 
with  a  Sudra.  The  large  proportion  of 
this  degraded  class  were  therefore  liter- 
ally out-castes. 

Driven  forth  from  human  habitations, 
it  was  truly  the  wilderness  that  yielded 
food  for  them  and  their  children.  Out- 
casts —  or  pariahs,  as  they  are  usually 
called  —  were  not  merely  banished  from 
towns  and  villages,  but  were  forbidden 
to  join  together  to  form  any  of  their 
own.  Because  their  use  of  fire  and 
water  would  have  sullied  the  purity  of 
those  elements,  they  were  forced  to  eat 
uncooked  meat  and  vegetables,  and  they 
could  drink  no  water  save  that  to  be 
found  in  marshes,  or  in  holes  made  in 
the  ground  by  the  hoofs  of  animals. 
Since  they  communicated  their  impurity 
to  everything  they  touched,  the  work  of 
then?  hands  was  as  much  shunned  by 
their  social  superiors  as  they  were  them- 
selves. And  furthermore,  as  legally  they 
were  not  recognized  to  be  in  existence, 
there  was  for  them  no  redress  if  what- 
ever little  property  they  possessed  was 
confiscated ;  while  the  murder  of  one  of 
them  by  a  man  of  pure  caste  was  con- 
sidered by  him  no  greater  crime  than 
the  stepping  on  an  insect  is  by  a  Euro- 
pean. The  refined  cruelty  with  which 
they  were  treated  is  almost  beyond  the 
comprehension  of  races  who,  whatever 
may  be  their  practice,  believe  that  all 
human  beings  are  equal  in  the  sight  of 
God  ;  and  it  seems  still  more  monstrous 
when  contrasted  with  the  kindness  of 
the  "  mild  Hindu  "  to  his  domestic  an- 
imals. On  the  one  hand,  the  Sacred 
Books  of  India  teach  that  "  scratching 
the  back  of  a  cow  destroys  all  guilt,  and 


TJie  Vagabonds  and  Criminals  of  India.          [February, 

giving  her  to  eat  procures  exaltation  in 
heaven  ; "  but  again  we  are  told  that 
"  he  who  associates  with  an  outcast  is 
outcasted  himself  a  year.  And  so  is 
he  who  rides  in  the  same  carriage  with 
him,  or  who  eats  in  his  company,  or  who 
sits  on  the  same  bench,  or  who  lies  on 
the  same  couch  with  him." 

So  much  of  the  world's  work  in  the 
past  could  not  have  been  accomplished, 
had  it  not  been  for  the  extreme  forms  of 
servitude  and  slavery,  that  these  seem 
like  necessary  evils.  But  there  is  no 
vindication  for  a  social  system  which 
has  encouraged  a  degradation  lower  and 
more  bitter  than  Babylonian  captivity, 
Spartan  helotism,  or  European  serfdom  ; 
which  has  reduced  men  and  women  to 
poverty  and  wretchedness  beyond  belief ; 
and  which,  by  preventing  their  working 
with  or  for  others,  has  actually  forced 
them  into  crime  and  knavery. 

At  first  pariahs  must  have  rebelled 
against  this  pitiless  injustice.  Perhaps, 
as  has  been  suggested,  it  was  caste  tyr- 
anny which,  in  still  earlier  times,  led 
Aryans  to  seek  a  new  home  in  Europe, 
and  which  gave  the  impetus  to  that  other 
large  immigration  supposed  to  have  been 
made  from  the  southern  part  of  India 
into  Africa.  It  is  certain  that  once  an 
inspired  poet  sought,  like  the  prophets 
of  Israel,  to  rouse  his  fellow-sufferers  to 
action.  This  was  Tiruvalluvfi,  the  "  di- 
vine pariah,"  probably  a  disgraced  Brah- 
man, who  bitterly  resented  his  wrongs. 
"  Thy  time  is  come.  Therefore,  awake, 
O  thou  man  of  the  jungle  ! "  he  called 
to  the  pariahs,  in  poetry  as  impassioned 
as  that  of  Jeremiah  or  Isaiah.  His  was 
but  a  voice  in  the  wilderness.  What 
was  needed  was  a  Moses,  to  show  the 
way  out  of  it.  Other  outcasts,  seeking 
to  reinstate  themselves  by  quiet  and 
stealth,  crept  back  gradually  to  cities 
and  villages.  But  their  movements 
were  observed,  and  the  condition  upon 
which  they  were  allowed  to  remain  was 
that  they  should  become  brick-makers, 
—  earth,  by  its  inherent  virtue,  purify- 

ing itself  from  their  touch  ;  while  for 
wages  they  were  to  receive  nothing  but 
their  food ;  and  they  were  required  to 
make  their  home  in  the  outskirts  of  the 
town,  in  worse  than  Ghetto  retirement. 
Uninterrupted  hard  work  under  a  burn- 
ing sun,  supported  by  a  diet  of  raw  veg- 
etables, principally  onions,  had  at  least 
one  advantage, —  it  hastened  their  death ; 
and  this  was  the  only  way  in  which 
their  misery  could  be  alleviated.  But 
they  clung  to  life  with  a  tenacity  which 
increased  in  proportion  to  its  evils,  and 
few  consented  to  better  themselves  so- 
cially by  the  sacrifice  of  physical  health. 
Many  who  had  scarcely  advanced  be- 
yond the  savage  state  relapsed  into  it ; 
hiding  themselves  in  the  jungle,  and 
avoiding  all  communication  with  other 
men.  The  majority,  to  whom  this  was 
too  distasteful,  embraced  a  nomadic  ex- 
istence, and  procured  their  actual  neces- 
sities sometimes  by  fair  means,  some- 
times by  foul  ;  in  all  such  matters  being 
ruled  by  circumstances.  These  latter 
were  the  ancestors  of  the  present  vaga- 
bonds and  criminals,  and  the  roaming 
they  then  began  has  proved  as  ceaseless 
as  that  of  the  Wandering  Jew.  The 
hope  of  escape  became  less  and  less  with 
every  generation,  and  they  finally  re- 
signed themselves  to  their  fate.  Custom 
can  reconcile  man  to  what  is  disagree- 
able, and,  like  the  aged  prisoner  who 
was  broken-hearted  at  leaving  the  prison 
which  in  his  youth  he  had  entered  with 
loathing,  pariahs  finished  by  prizing  the 
social  isolation  which  at  first  had  been  so 
bitter  to  them.  So  soon  as  they  showed 
themselves  as  unwilling  to  lead  a  settled 
life  and  to  follow  legitimate  trades  as 
the  Brahmans  were  that  they  should  do 
so,  the  strictness  of  the  laws  against 
them  was  very  much  relaxed.  Men  of 
caste  were  not  so  particular  in  keeping 
them  at  a  fixed  distance,  and  even  con- 
descended to  be  amused,  and  in  minor 
ways  assisted  by  them. 

A  system  which  stifled  hopes,  ambi- 
tions, and  aspirations  made  the  repent- 


The  Vagabonds  and  Criminals  of  India. 


ance  and  self-improvement  of  sinners 
and  ne'er-do-weels  utterly  impossible. 
Outcasts,  instead  of  being  cut  down  like 
grass  and  withering  as  the  green  herb, 
grew  both  in  strength  and  numbers. 
To-day  they  constitute  one  third  of  the 
native  population  of  India.  They  have 
exhausted  all  the  resources  of  life  in 
tents  and  by  the  wayside,  and  have  per- 
fected themselves  in  lawlessness.  Every 
nomadic  calling  and  custom  which  has 
ever  been  known  in  any  part  of  the 
world  has  its  counterpart  in  India.  In- 
deed, that  country  is  so  preeminently 
the  headquarters  of  gypsydom  that  one 
wonders  how  there  ever  could  have 
arisen  any  doubt  as  to  the  origin  of  the 
European  Romanys.  There  is  not  a 
family  or  tribe  of  Hindu  outcasts  which 
has  not  one  or  two  traits  in  common 
with  the  gypsy,  while,  as  Mr.  Leland 
has  pointed  out,  in  the  Rom  or  Trablu 
we  have  the  pure,  thoroughbred  Roma- 
ny, in  name  and  in  language  as  well  as 
in  character.  There  are  really  endless 
shades  of  difference  in  the  habits  and 
pursuits  of  pariahs.  Among  them,  as 
among  the  "  travelers  "  of  Europe  and 
America,  there  are  musicians  and  actors, 
horse-dealers  and  bear-leaders,  tinkers 
and  smiths,  fortune-tellers  and  basket- 
makers,  jugglers  and  acrobats,  beggars 
and  tramps.  With  them  all,  even  when 
they  are  apparently  honest,  there  lin- 
gers a  subtle  if  inexplicable  hint  of  vil- 
lainy and  duplicity,  or,  "  as  among  the 
Greeks  of  old  with  Mercury  amid  the 
singing  of  leafy  brooks,  there  is  a  tink- 
ling of  at  least  petty  larceny."  And  as 
suggestion  may  become  certainty,  or  as 
tinkling  often  grows  louder  than  song, 
so  vagabondage  is  unfortunately  too  fre- 
quently cast  into  the  background  by 
crime,  and  pariahs  devote  themselves 
wholly  to  murder  and  theft.  Their 
choice  of  occupation  has  been  at  times 
regulated  by  their  innate  tastes  and  ten- 
dencies :  for  there  is  a  natural  diver- 
sity in  the  instincts  of  such  men  as 
Doms  and  Nats,  who  are  usually  actors 

and  musicians,  and  of  Mangs,  who  are 
the  most  good-for-nothing  of  all  beggar- 
ly loafers  ;  or  of  such  as  Bhils  and  Juts, 
whose  fierceness  makes  them  good  war- 
riors, and  of  Korvarus,  whose  name  has 
become  proverbial  for  stupidity.  But 
as  a  rule,  just  as  chance  has  led  birds  by 
the  water-side  to  feed  on  fish  and  those 
in  field  and  forest  to  subsist  on  grain 
and  worms,  so  circumstances  have  com- 
pelled some  outcasts  to  murder  and  rob 
in  order  to  secure  the  necessities  of  life, 
but  have  allowed  others  to  gain  the 
same  end  by  tight-rope  dancing  and  the 
turning  of  somersaults.  For  very  much 
the  same  reasons,  while  many  are  as 
restless  as  if  cursed  with  the  curse  of 
Cain,  there  are  others  who  wander  only 
at  certain  seasons,  and  still  others  who 
confine  their  depredations  and  vagran- 
cy to  one  particular  locality.  The  Eng- 
lish police  draw  a  very  distinct  line  be- 
tween the  non-wandering  criminal  and 
non-criminal  wandering  tribes,  but  they 
themselves  do  not  invariably  observe 
this  distinction.  For,  if  the  former 
found  a  good  opportunity  to  commit 
crime  in  some  far  distant  province,  they 
would  not  hesitate  to  journey  thither ; 
and  if  a  chicken  strayed  into  the  tents 
or  a  purse  fell  at  the  feet  of  the  latter, 
they  would  have  no  objections  to  appro- 
priate it. 

The  variety  of  races  included  in  this 
large  class  has  been  further  increased 
by  the  fact  that  during  comparatively 
recent  years  members  of  high  castes 
have  allied  themselves  with  the  wander- 
ers, attracted  to  them  by  the  freedom 
of  their  lives.  Brahmans  have  shared 
the  fortunes  of  highwaymen.  Rajputs 
and  Sudras  have  abandoned  kingdoms 
and  villages  for  huts  and  tents.  But  as 
men  of  every  nationality,  when  they  ac- 
cept the  laws  and  customs  of  the  United 
States,  become  identified  with  native-born 
citizens,  these  voluntary  outcasts  have 
so  adapted  themselves  to  vagabondage 
that,  for  all  intents  and  purposes,  they 
are  not  to  be  distinguished  from  gen- 


The  Vagabonds  and  Criminals  of  India.         [February, 

uine  pariahs.  While  it  would  require 
volumes  to  enumerate  their  divisions 
and  subdivisions  and  to  record  their  ex- 
periences in  the  past,  it  is  possible  even 
in  a  short  article  to  treat  of  them  as  a 
class,  since  all,  however  much  they  may 
differ  in  minor  particulars,  agree  in  their 
conception  of  life's  chief  object  and  du- 
ties. All,  from  highest  to  lowest,  make 
the  physical  maintenance  and  survival 
of  the  individual  the  mainspring  of  ac- 
tivity. However  different  may  be  the 
means  employed  by  them,  their  aim  is 
always  the  same.  If  the  definition  of 
"conduct"  is  the  adjustment  of  acts  to 
ends,  then  their  actions  may  be  dignified 
by  that  name.  For  in  order  to  accom- 
plish their  object,  —  that  is,  in  order  to 
fully  satisfy  their  bodily  appetites,  — 
they  have  established  for  themselves 
religious  commandments  which  they 
scrupulously  obey,  and  a  social  code  to 
which  they  strictly  adhere. 

Irreconcilable  as  crime  and  religion 
seem,  they  have  often  gone  hand  in 
hand.  The  Virgin  Mary  has  had  few 
more  faithful  followers  than  mediaeval 
outlaws  and  Italian  brigands  ;  but  the 
prayers  of  robbers  and  highwaymen  to 
the  Refuge  of  the  Afflicted  are  quite  as 
incongruous  as  are  those  of  a  Louis  XL 
to  the  Mother  of  Mercy.  The  piety  of 
Hindu  ruffians  and  rogues  is  at  least 
more  consistent.  One  of  the  principal 
deities  of  the  Hindu  Pantheon  is  Deva, 
or  Kali,  or  Bhawani,  the  Sakti,  or  fe- 
male part  of  Siva,  who  is  the  goddess  of 
destruction.  Human  sacrifices  are  to 
her  what  prayer  and  meditation  are  to 
Brahma,  and  streams  of  human  blood 
what  libations  of  clarified  butter  are  to 
her  fellow  deities.  More  terrible  than 
Baal  or  Moloch,  she  revels  in  death's- 
heads  and  skeletons,  and  exults  in  car- 
nage. Virtuous  men  and  women  have 
no  gift  wherewith  to  propitiate  her,  but 
assassins  cater  to  her  divine  appetite, 
and  theft  is  to  her  as  a  sweet-smelling 
incense.  Were  her  worshipers  philoso- 
phers, they  could  plead  an  altruistic  mo- 

tive for  their  murders ;  for  the  blood  of 
one  man  will  quench  her  horrible  thirst 
for  a  thousand  years,  and  the  blood 
of  three  men  for  a  hundred  thousand. 
As  it  is,  they  believe  in  sincerity  that 
their  vilest  atrocities  are  ordained  by 
heaven,  and  that  they  are  rewarded  for 
the  perpetration  of  them  by  the  imme- 
diate protection  of  deity ;  a  belief  which 
would  be  simply  impossible  to  criminals 
in  Christian  countries.  The  doctrines 
and  laws  based  upon  such  a  worship 
convert  crime  into  a  religious  duty.  It 
was  in  vain  that  towards  the  beginning 
of  their  struggles  Tiruvalluva  endeav- 
ored to  elevate  the  moral  nature  of  pa- 
riahs by  assuring  them  that  virtue  is  the 
only  true  wealth,  and  that  pleasure  con- 
sists in  the  mastery  of  the  passions.  He 
might  as  well  have  recommended  flying 
as  the  most  perfect  way  of  getting  from 
one  place  to  another,  or  mewing  as  the 
most  intelligible  manner  of  communi- 
cating their  thoughts;  for  they  would 
have  found  it  quite  as  easy  to  mew  or 
to  fly  away  into  space  as  to  be  virtuous 
or  self  -  controlled.  But  when  orders 
were  given  them  as  to  the  how  and  the 
whence  necessities  were  to  be  procured, 
they  recognized  a  practical  element 
therein,  and  obeyed  them  to  the  very 
letter.  The  thieves  of  India  to-day  have 
religious  precepts  which  define  the  priv- 
ileges and  limits  of  their  trade,  and  are 
as  sacred  to  them  as  the  commandments 
of  Moses  are  to  Jews  and  Christians. 
These  they  believe  to  have  been  re- 
vealed, together  with  their  slang,  by  the 
god  Kartikeya,  who,  according  to  Cap- 
tain Burton,  is  a  mixture  of  Mars  and 
Mercury.  Murderers  too  have  heaven- 
sanctioned  mandates,  which  set  forth  the 
orthodox  manners  in  which  murder  can 
be  committed,  and  which  men  are  and 
which  are  not  its  legitimate  victims. 
Never  has  there  been  such  a  straining 
at  gnats  and  swallowing  of  camels ! 
Men  who  morally  are  so  blind  that 
wrong  seems  to  them  right  scruple  at 
the  slightest  deviation  from  laws  which 


The  Vagabonds  and  Criminals  of  India. 


are  valueless.  The  Soonaria,  who  is  an 
inveterate  pickpocket  and  petty  pilferer, 
vows  to  his  goddess  never  to  become  a 
highwayman  or  burglar.  He  may  steal 
ad  libitum  during  the  daytime,  but 
should  he  do  so  between  the  hours  of 
sunset  and  sunrise  he  would  be  guilty  of 
mortal  sin.  It  was  because  of  their  re- 
ligious principles  that  the  Thugs,  before 
their  extermination  by  the  English, 
never  robbed  without  first  committing 
murder,  never  allowed  one  of  a  cap- 
tured party  to  escape,  and  always  spared 
pariahs  and  women.  The  neglect  of  his 
ablutions  is  no  greater  crime  for  a  Brah- 
man than  the  violation  of  these  decrees 
is  for  pious  criminals.  The  downfall  of 
the  Thugs  is  attributed  to  their  relaxa- 
tion in  religious  discipline.  A  certain 
gang  of  Phansigars  is  said  never  to  have 
prospered  because  on  one  occasion  they 
murdered  a  woman. 

Bhawani  worshipers  are  sincerely  ear- 
nest in  their  piety.  They  never  under- 
take an  expedition,  no  matter  how  in- 
significant, without  first  appealing  to 
her  for  help ;  and  they  have  a  number 
of  minor  rites  and  ceremonies  by  which 
they  endeavor  at  all  times  to  please  and 
honor  her.  The  Lungotee  Pardhis, 
who  are  desperate  burglars,  are  so  de- 
vout that  the  women  of  the  tribe  never 
wear  silver  anklets,  because  the  statue  of 
the  goddess,  placed  in  every  tent  as  its 
presiding  genius,  is  made  of  that  metal ; 
they  cannot  wear  red  apparel,  because 
she  is  always  represented  resting  on  a 
ground  of  that  color  ;  they  cannot  sleep 
in  cots,  since  she  reclines  on  one ;  and, 
for  fear  of  offending  her,  shoes  are  never, 
under  any  circumstances,  carried  within 
their  tents.  The  Bowries,  who  infest 
the  central  provinces,  make  pilgrimages 
from  enormous  distances,  at  great  per- 
sonal inconvenience,  to  Kerolee,  where 
there  is  a  shrine  of  Deva,  supposed  to 
possess  special  merit  and  sanctity.  As 
in  Catholic  countries  children  are  dressed 
in  blue  and  white  in  honor  of  the  Vir- 
gin, so  the  Thugs  used  white  and  yellow 

nooses  because  these  were  colors  conse- 
crated to  Deva.  The  Thugs  had  good 
reason  to  reverence  the  goddess,  for,  ac- 
cording to  a  favorite  legend,  there  was 
a  time  when  she  herself  was  their  im- 
mediate accomplice.  In  her  insatiable 
hunger  for  human  food,  she  devoured 
all  the  men  they  murdered  on  their  ex- 
peditions, thus  lessening  the  circumstan- 
tial evidence  against  them.  But  she 
made  one  condition,  as  all  supernatural 
beings,  from  the  spirit  that  denies  down 
to  the  wicked  witch  of  fairy  lore,  have 
a  way  of  doing  in  their  contracts  with 
mankind ;  she  forbade  them  ever  to 
look  at  her  while  she  was  at  her  repast. 
Once,  a  novice  in  Thuggee  —  for  there 
must  always  be  a  Peeping  Tom  of  Cov- 
entry—  disobeyed  her  injunction,  and 
turned  and  gazed  at  her  just  as  the  feet 
of  the  last  victim  were  disappearing 
down  the  divine  throat.  In  her  fierce 
wrath,  she  declared  that  thenceforward 
she  would  withhold  her  active  aid,  but, 
that  she  might  not  altogether  lose  such 
valuable  servants,  she  taught  them  how 
they  could  cut  up  and  bury  the  bodies 
of  the  slain  without  leaving  a  trace. 
Then  she  gave  them  a  rib  for  a  knife, 
the  hem  of  her  garment  for  a  noose,  and 
one  of  her  teeth  for  a  pickaxe.  It  was 
because  of  its  heavenly  origin  that  this 
pickaxe,  thrown  into  a  well  at  night  for 
purposes  of  concealment,  would  rise  in 
the  morning  at  the  first  word  of  command 
from  the  Thug  who  had  it  in  charge. 

Superstitious  to  a  degree  known  only 
in  India,  unprincipled  men,  who  live  by 
deeds  of  daring,  quail  before  unreal  dan- 
gers. Let  but  a  hare  or  a  snake  cross 
his  path,  or  an  owl  screech  in  the  dis- 
tance ;  let  but  one  of  his  party  kill  a 
tiger,  or  a  dog  run  off  with  the  head  of 
a  sacrificed  sheep,  and  there  is  not  a 
robber  or  highwayman  hardy  enough  to 
pursue  his  enterprise,  even  if  petitions 
and  sacrifices  have  already  been  offered 
in  due  form  to  Bhawani.  But  the  chirp- 
ing of  a  lizard,  the  cawing  of  a  crow 
from  a  tree  to  the  left  side,  the  appear- 


The  Vagabonds  and  Criminals  of  India.          [February, 

ance  of  a  tiger,  or  the  call  of  a  partridge 
on  the  right,  will  restore  his  confidence, 
making  his  success  seem  sure.  The 
classical  robber  of  the  Hindu  drama 
hastens  cheerfully  to  his  work  if  he 
passes  a  rat-hole. 

While  the  first  outcasts  robbed  and 
murdered  and  begged  from  necessity, 
their  descendants  to-day  do  so  in  order 
to  fulfill  what  they  consider  to  be  a  so- 
cial obligation.  With  the  blindness  of 
the  heroes  of  Greek  tragedy,  they,  in  an 
early  period,  bound  themselves  irrevo- 
cably to  their  fate  by  adopting  distinc- 
tions of  caste  similar  to  and  inexorable 
as  those  which  had  wrought  their  wretch- 
edness. There  are  castes  even  among 
outcasts.  Pariahs  are,  in  consequence, 
as  jealous  of  their  impurity  as  Brah- 
mans  are  of  their  purity.  The  privi- 
leges and  restrictions  of  their  own  mak- 
ing are  more  serious  impediments  in  the 
way  of  their  improvement  than  the  en- 
mity of  the  "  twice-born,"  or  Hindu 
aristocracy.  Their  vital  principle  of  be- 
lief is  that  the  most  unpardonable  of 
all  offenses  is  for  an  outcast  to  desert 
the  tribe  in  which  he  is  born,  or  aban- 
don the  profession  of  his  fathers.  In 
their  social  starvation,  they  themselves 
reject  the  meat  and  drink  that  could 
save  them.  Intermarriages  are  as  strict- 
ly avoided  by  professional  criminals  and 
vagrants  as  if  the  laws  of  Manu  had 
been  made  for  them.  A  Hindu  Thug, 
in  the  palmy  days  of  Thuggee,  would 
have  died  rather  than  marry  one  of  his 
daughters  or  sisters  to  a  brother  mur- 
derer who  professed  the  creed  of  Moham- 
med. The  Mangs,  whose  poverty  and 
squalor  are  unrivaled,  would  indignantly 
refuse  a  Brahman  who  might  offer  him- 
self in' marriage.  Among  these  people, 
a  Lazarus,  while  he  might  eagerly  seize 
the  crumbs  from  a  Dives'  table,  would 
scruple  sitting  at  it  with  him.  The 
Chenchwars  carry  their  contempt  for  all 
castes  and  tribes  but  their  own  to  such 
an  extent  that  they  declare  they  live  in 
the  jungle  for  the  sake  of  health,  be- 

cause there  the  smell  of  other  men  can- 
not reach  them. 

The  criminal's  estimation  of  the  crime 
peculiar  to  his  family  is  a  serious  realiza- 
tion of  P'alstaff's  ideas  as  to  the  moral 
value  of  his  purloining  of  purses  :  "  Why, 
Hal,  it  is  my  vocation  !  'T  is  no  sin  for 
a  man  to  labor  in  his  vocation  !  "  When 
a  Thug  strangler  was  asked  whether  he 
never  felt  remorse  after  killing  innocent 
people,  he  answered  in  perfect  good 
faith,  "  Does  any  man  feel  compunction 
in  following  his  trade,  and  are  not  all 
our  trades  assigned  us  by  Providence  ?  " 
Conscientious  scruples  might  as  well  be 
expected  of  a  spider  feasting  on  the  flies 
in  its  nets,  or  of  a  tiger  devouring  its 
human  victims.  Nor  are  the  pariah's 
feelings  on  the  subject  merely  negative. 
The  most  confirmed  criminal  and  the 
most  good-for-nothing  vagabond  alike 
take  real  pride  in  their  wickedness  and 
vileness.  Men  of  the  caste  of  Calaris, 
when  interrogated  as  to  their  trade,  with 
thorough  self-satisfaction  proclaim  them- 
selves robbers.  The  greatest  compli- 
ment which  a  Thug  could  receive  was 
praise  of  his  skill  as  single-handed  stran- 
gler. The  very  word  Thug  signifies  de- 
ceiver. Phansigar,  Ari  Tulucar,  Tanti 
Callern,  Warlu  Wahudlu,  as  stranglers 
have  been  called  in  different  parts  of 
India,  refer  to  their  use  of  a  noose. 
Thieves  and  beggars,  like  the  Artful 
Dodger,  would  scorn  all  other  but  their 
own  employments.  This  distorted  con- 
ception of  duty  cannot  be  wondered  at, 
since  even  the  Bhagavad-Gita,  a  book 
which  contains  the  highest  moral  wis- 
dom of  the  Hindus,  teaches  that  it  is 

"  Better  to  do  the  duty  of  one's  caste, 
Though  bad  and  ill  performed  and  fraught  with 


Than  undertake  the  business  of  another, 
However  good  it  be." 

Indeed,  so  much  stress  is  laid  upon  this 
doctrine  that  no  occasion  is  lost  of  im- 
pressing its  necessity  upon  the  people. 
"  Verily,"  it  is  asserted  in  the  drama  of 
Sakuntala,  "  the  occupation  in  which  a 


The  Vagabonds  and  Criminals  of  India. 


man  is  born,  though  it  be  in  bad  repute, 
must  not  be  abandoned."  At  least  in 
this  one  respect  outcasts  are  in  thorough 
accord  with  the  men  who  despise  them. 
Their  laws  have  been  obeyed  to  the 
very  letter  throughout  many  generations, 
and  hence  pariahs  have  acquired  great 
proficiency  in  their  hereditary  callings, 
but  have  become  absolutely  indifferent 
to  their  mental  and  moral  welfare. 
Free  from  conflicting  aimsj  they  have 
been  able  to  direct  their  entire  energy 
into  one  channel.  Indian  acrobats  and 
jugglers  learn  to  turn  and  tumble  and 
master  the  art  of  legerdemain  with  an 
ease  that  would  be  the  envy  of  Western 
Houdins  or  Ravels.  No  national  theatre 
or  college  of  musicians  is  needed  in  a 
country  where  men  have  greater  natural 
talent  for  acting  than  even  Italians,  or 
are  devoted  to  music  from  infancy,  as 
Slavonian  bards  are  to  poetry.  It  is 
not  surprising  that  the  pariah  fortune- 
teller continues  to  gull  the  Gorgio  in 
the  streets  of  Bombay  and  the  courts  of 
Cairo,  as  well  as  in  the  green  lanes  of 
England  and  wild  prairies  of  America, 
since  shrewd  observance  and  an  intui- 
tive knowledge  of  the  follies  of  human- 
ity have,  with  the  peaked  corners  of  her 
eyes,  been  heirlooms  in  her  family  for 
untold  ages.  Neither  is  it  strange  that 
beggars  are  adepts  in  every  device  and 
stratagem  practiced  by  the  brotherhood 
throughout  the  world,  since  their  ances- 
tors for  many  centuries  have  made  alms- 
asking  the  study  of  their  lives.  But  it 
is  as  thieves  and  murderers  that  they 
shine  forth  stars  of  the  first  magnitude. 
"  To  be  imperfect  being  their  essence," 
in  the  words  of  De  Quinceyj  "  the  very 
greatness  of  their  imperfection  becomes 
their  perfection."  Grimm's  master  thief 
might  take  a  lesson,  and  profit  thereby, 
from  Bowries  and  Soonarias.  Well 
might  De  Quincey's  Toad-in-the-hole 
and  amateur  murderers  give  a  dinner  in 
honor  of  the  Thugs,  for  the  latter  were 
the  most  skilled  professionals  in  the  art 
of  murder  who  have  ever  existed.  The 
VOL.  LIU NO.  315.  14 

work  of  Hindu  assassins  and  robbers  is 
never  marred  by  the  shortcomings  and 
oversights  of  bungling  apprentices.  As 
the  painter  looks  to  his  brushes  and  can- 
vas before  he  begins  his  picture,  so  these 
artists  give  due  attention  to  all  minor 
accessories  before  proceeding  to  their 
main  work.  If  it  be  to  their  advantage 
to  assume  a  disguise,  or  affect  qualities 
foreign  to  their  nature,  they  do  so  with 
a  heroism  worthy  of  a  better  cause. 
Thugs,  when  on  their  murdering  expe- 
ditions, were  so  courteous  and  friendly 
in  manner  that  travelers  falling  in  with 
them  begged  to  be  allowed  the  privi- 
lege of  joining  their  parties,  and  threw 
themselves  on  their  protection  as  they 
journeyed  through  lonely  places.  High- 
waymen, who  have  found  it  to  their  ad- 
vantage to  maintain  a  respectable  exte- 
rior, live,  when  not  on  active  duty,  in 
large,  fine  houses,  and  cultivate  their 
fields.  Budhuck  Bowries,  true  wolves 
in  sheep's  clothing,  pass  themselves  off 
as  religious  mendicants,  and  are  so  fa- 
miliar with  the  necessary  prayers  and 
customs  that  none  but  a  real  Gossei  or 
Byragee  can  detect  the  imposture.  Oth- 
er tribes  of  Bowries,  for  ostensible  occu- 
pation, repair  millstones ;  and  in  this 
manner  they  make  their  way  by  day  into 
houses  that  they  intend  to  rob  by  night, 
and  acquaint  themselves  with  the  habits 
of  the  household.  Peddling,  fortune- 
telling,  and  all  kindred  small  trades, 
which  are  to  the  lower  classes  what  the 
eye  of  the  Ancient  Mariner  was  to  the 
wedding-guest,  serve  as  convenient  pass- 
ports into  premises  which  otherwise  they 
would  never  be  allowed  to  enter. 

From  philosophers  who  believe  that  a 
man  must 

"contend  to  the  uttermost 
For  his  life's  set  prize,  be  it  what  it  wiU," 

these  evil-doers  deserve  praise  for  their 
perseverance  and  energy.  But  beyond 
this  nothing  can  be  said  in  their  favor. 
Hindu  highwaymen  and  robbers  are 
utterly  without  the  love  of  adventure 
and  keen  pleasure  ir>  physical  strength 


The  Vagabonds  and  Criminals  of  India.         [February, 

which  led  the  fearless  northern  Ber- 
serkers over  wide  seas,  laughing  at  the 
tempest  as  they  went,  into  far  distant 
lauds,  in  quest  of  plunder.  Much  can 
be  forgiven  men  who,  like  Regner  Lod- 
brok,  in  the  very  arms  of  death,  chant 
with  exultation  of  the  days  when  they 
smote  with  swords.  But  sympathy  is 
never  awakened  for  Thug-like  caitiffs, 
who,  instead  of  facing  foes  in  fair  fight, 
fall  upon  them  as  a  tiger  springs  upon 
its  prey.  One  admires  the  chivalric 
bravery  of  outlaws  typified  by  Adam 
Bell,  Gym  of  the  Clough,  and  William 
of  Cloudesle  who,  unaided,  defied  all 
the  men  of  merry  Carlisle ;  or  by  Robin 
Hood,  who  gave  Guy  of  Gisborne  proof 
of  his  unerring  skill  as  marksman  be- 
fore he  would  contend  with  him  in  sin- 
gle combat.  Men  of  this  stamp  are  fit 
heroes  of  romance.  But  one  feels  noth- 
ing but  contempt  towards  professional 
murderers,  for  whom  the  chances  in  their 
own  favor  must  be  three  to  one  before 
they  venture  upon  an  attack,  and  who 
will  smile,  Judas-fashion,  in  a  man's  face 
even  as  they  give  his  death-signal. 

Like  the  student  who  devotes  himself 
to  one  study,  but  neglects  general  cul- 
ture, these  men  have  won  their  success 
in  iniquity  and  in  petty  professions  at 
the  expense  of  all  the  finer  feelings  and 
nobler  qualities  of  which  human  nature 
is  capable.  If,  on  the  one  hand,  they 
manifest  a  marked  proficiency,  on  the 
other  there  is  a  total  deficiency.  En- 
tirely concerned  with  the  gaining  of 
their  daily  bread,  for  all  other  purposes 
they  have  no  guide  but  impulse  and  ex- 
pediency. Eat  thou,  and  be  filled !  has 
hitherto  been  their  one  law.  Hence  they 
have  never  realized  that  they  owe  a  duty 
to  their  fellow-men  as  well  as  to  them- 
selves. They  know  nothing  of  that  high- 
er moral  dictate  which  exacts  that  the 
aims  of  the  individual  must  not  inter- 
fere with  those  of  the  community ;  that 
one  man's  good  must  not  be  another 
man's  ill.  For  them  there  is  no  struggle 


in  deciding  between   physical  pleasure 

and  moral  duty.  Their  standard  of  right 
and  wrong  being  their  own  bodily  well- 
being,  whatever  contributes  to  it  seems 
to  them  good ;  whatever  interferes  with 
it,  bad.  According  to  their  lights,  self- 
sacrifice  is  vicious  ;  brutish  selfishness  is 
virtuous.  They  test  the  merit  of  their 
pursuits  by  their  profitable  results,  and 
consequently  attach  the  same  value  to 
assassination  and  fortune-telling,  theft 
and  bear  -  leading,  provided  by  these 
means  they  obtain  the  wherewithal  to 
satisfy  their  hunger  and  quench  their 
thirst.  "  Since  vices  with  them  are 
profitable,  it  is  the  virtuous  man  who 
is  the  sinner."  Because  they  have  no 
sense  of  morality,  their  actions  cannot 
be  fairly  judged  by  our  standards.  They 
neither  intend  to  bid  defiance  to  the 
law,  as  is  the  case  with  ordinary  crim- 
inals in  the  "West,  nor  do  they  hope, 
with  Nihilists  and  Socialists,  to  sanctify* 
means  by  the  end  they  have  in  view. 
They  are  not  immoral,  but  immoral. 
And  because  their  deficiencies  are  the 
result  of  degeneracy,  and  not  of  primi- 
tive imperfection,  there  is  less  chance 
for  their  development  than  for  that  of 
savages.  They  are  moral  as  well  as 
social  outcasts. 

Their  curious  moral  insensibility  is 
strikingly  shown  in  the  fables  current 
among  them.  Strange  as  it  may  seem, 
pariahs  have  a  literature  of  their  own. 
The  popular  tales  of  India  originated 
with  them,  and  are  the  expression  of 
that  laughter  at  their  betters  which 
lightens  the  burden  of  servitude,  and 
their  satire  is  gayly  reechoed  in  the 
farces  and  burlesques  of  Dom  composi- 
tion. They  have  at  least  one  poet, 
Tiruvalluvu,  whose  inspiration,  however, 
was  derived  from  Brahman  rather  than 
from  pariah  ideals.  Interesting  as  their 
stories,  plays,  and  poetry  are,  forming 
really  a  study  by  themselves,  it  is  only 
in  their  fables  that  they  deal  directly 
with  ethical  questions,  and  hence  these 
alone  are  appropriate  to  the  present  sub- 
ject. The  fables  of  all  nations  are  in- 


The  Vagabonds  and  Criminals  of  India. 


tended  to  convey  a  moral  lesson,  usually 
of  a  homely,  practical  nature,  calculated 
to  suit  the  lower  and  ignorant  classes, 
who  would  be  much  less  impressed  by 
the  lofty  doctrines  of  a  Zeno,  a  Marcus 
Aurelius,  or  a  Thomas  a  Kempis.  They 
recommend  virtue  and  depreciate  vice, 
not  for  themselves,  but  because  man  will 
and  must  gain  by  practicing  the  one 
and  avoiding  the  other.  If  a  dog,  in 
crossing  a  stream,  loses  the  bone  from 
its  mouth  by  snapping  at  its  reflection 
in  the  water  ;  or  if  a  crow,  succumbing 
to  the  insinuating  compliments  of  a  fox, 
drops  its  piece  of  cheese  by  opening 
its  mouth  to  display  its  vocal  powers, 
the  lesson  to  be  learned  is  that  greedi- 
ness, covetousness,  and  vanity  are  pas- 
sions the  gratification  of  which  will,  in 
the  long  run,  produce  pain  much  greater 
in  proportion  than  the  immediate  pleas- 
ure derived  from  them.  Be  good,  not 
for  goodness'  sake,  but  because  it  is  to 
your  advantage  to  be  so  !  The  fables 
of  the  pariahs  are  like  these  inasmuch 
as  their  basis  is  pure  utilitarianism,  but 
differ  from  them  in  upholding  the  ex- 
pediency of  evil.  Be  selfish,  cruel,  and 
ungrateful,  for  generosity,  kindness,  and 
gratitude  may  contribute  to  the  pleasure 
of  your  fellows,  but  will  leave  you  de- 
cidedly in  the  lurch  !  This  is  the  teach- 
ing of  outcasts.  As  the  pariah  himself 
is  an  anomaly  in  civilization,  so  is  his 
fable  a  curiosity  in  the  literature  of 
ethics.  The  following  is  a  fair  illustra- 
tion of  the  naivete  with  which  he  avows 
self-interest  to  be  with  him  the  first  of 
all  considerations  :  — 


A  pariah  had  spread  nets  in  the 
jungle,  in  hopes  to  catch  therein  a  bird 
for  his  midday  meal.  A  crow,  who  was 
hovering  in  the  air  in  wait  for  prey 
spied  a  piece  of  cocoanut  in  the  grass. 

"  Here,"  he  cried,  "  is  an  appetizing 
fruit,  which  has  fallen  upon  the  ground 
expressly  for  my  benefit !  "  He  flew 
down  to  secure  it,  but  scarcely  had  he 

touched  it  when  he  was  caught  fast  in 
the  pariah's  net.  In  vain  did  he  seek  to 
escape.  The  snare  held  him  fast,  and  the 
black  wanderer  discovered  that  he  was  a 
prisoner.  Then  he  broke  out  into  loud 
cries  and  wails  of  supplication  to  his 
brother  crows.  But  they  only  mocked 
him,  as  they  flew  above  his  head,  and 
told  him  that  the  first  time  he  would 
prove  of  use  in  the  world  would  be  when 
his  body  furnished  them  with  a  hearty 

"  Deliver  me,"  cried  the  captive  to 
some  rats,  who  sat  looking  on,  "  and  I 
will  make  with  you  an  eternal  alliance  !  " 
"  We  know  better,"  they  answered  in 
chorus.  "Before  long  the  pariah  will 
give  you  a  taste  of  his  heavy  stick,  and 
then  we  will  have  one  enemy  the  less  !  " 
and  with  a  squeal  of  triumph  they  dis- 
appeared in  their  holes. 

"  Appa  !  Appa  !  "  wailed  the  crow. 
"  Will  no  one  help  me  ?  "  "  Cut  the 
net  with  your  beak,"  suggested  a  lizard, 
who  was  passing  by.  "  I  could  not  pos- 
sibly do  anything  for  you.  Only  yes- 
terday you  devoured  another  of  my 

"  Why,"  remarked  a  mangous,  who 
had  been  looking  on  with  great  interest, 
"  do  you  appeal  only  to  animals  who 
know  well  enough  that  you  would  de- 
vour them,  were  you  free  ?  He  who  lets 
you  out  will  be  a  great  fool."  "  You 
help  me  to  escape,"  pleaded  the  crow 
in  plaintive  tones.  "  We  have  the  same 
enemies,  and  together  we  can  wage  war 
upon  all  rats  and  snakes.  There  is  force 
in  numbers."  "  I  will,"  said  the  man- 
gous, convinced  by  his  reasoning ;  "  but 
on  one  condition  :  I  have  always  wanted 
to  make  a  pilgrimage  to  the  banks  of  the 
Ganges  ;  you  must  carry  me  thither  on 
your  wings."  The  crow,  enchanted  with 
this  plan,  accepted  his  new  friend's  condi- 
tion at  once,  and  the  mangous  began  to 
gnaw  at  the  threads  that  bound  him.  So 
soon  as  the  bird  was  free,  he  took  his 
companion  on  his  back,  and  flew  up  into 
the  air.  But  when  he  had  reached  a 


The  Vagabonds  and  Criminals  of  India.         [February, 

great  height,  he  shook  his  feathers  so 
hard  that  the  wretched  mangous  was 
thrown  upon  the  rocks  beneath,  where 
he  broke  his  back.  The  crow  then 
pounced  upon  him,  and  began  to  tear 
him  to  pieces.  "  Is  this  your  prom- 
ise ?  "  said  the  poor  victim  as  he  writhed 
in  his  death  agony.  "  Why  do  you  com- 
plain ?  "  laughed  the  bird.  "  Did  you  not 
yourself  declare  that  he  who  would  set 
me  free  would  be  a  fool  ?  " 

Never  count  upon  the  gratitude  of  a 
famished  stomach. 

Moral :  If  you  hear  a  man  call  you 
from  the  bottom  of  a  pit,  throw  a  stone 
on  his  head ;  for  if  you  aid  him  to  get 
out,  it  will  be  he  who  will  kill  you. 

As  the  crow  laughed  at  the  mangous, 
so  would  the  pariah  make  merry  over 
the  idea  of  a  good  Samaritan,  for  he 
judges  all  men  by  himself.  The  same 
spirit  of  self-preservation  and  advance- 
ment at  any  cost  is  the  inspiration  of  all 
the  fables,  and  cunning  is  preferred  to 
strength.  The  fox,  and  not  the  lion,  is 
the  favorite  type.  In  one  story,  a  jackal, 
who  cannot  make  way  with  a  goat  by 
main  force,  entices  it  from  its  flock  by 
promises  of  superior  pasturage,  and 
then,  when  out  of  reach  of  the  goat- 
herd, kills  and  eats  it ;  and  this  is  a  re- 
minder to  thieves  that  "  that  which 
cannot  be  obtained  by  force  must  be 
won  by  stratagem.  He  who  profits  by 
the  work  and  snares  of  others  will  never 
be  in  need  of  food."  In  another,  two 
travelers  dispute  as  to  their  respective 
rapidity  of  movement,  and,  determining 
to  test  their  powers  then  and  there,  call 
upon  a  pariah,  whom  they  see  in  the 
distance,  to  be  umpire.  He,  as  soon  as 
they  are  well  started,  seizes  the  lug- 
gage, which  they  had  left  under  a  tree, 
and  departs  with  a  speed  of  which 
neither  disputant  can  boast.  And  from 
this  tale  the  man  who  lives  by  his  wits 
learns  that  "  one  must  always  profit  by 
the  quarrels  of  others,  and  derive  benefit 
from  them."  Virtue  is  declared  to  be 

nothing  but  the  covering  of  vice,  —  the 
most  virtuous  man  being  in  reality  the 
cleverest  hypocrite, —  and  friendship  is 
measured  by  its  usefulness.  And  so 
they  go  on,  forming  one  uninterrupted 
eulogy  of  duplicity,  hypocrisy,  strata- 
gem, and  double  dealing  of  every  kind ; 
totally  ignoring  the  existence  of  such 
qualities  as  honesty  and  charity,  equity 
and  courage. 

The  fact  is  that  pariahs  have  been 
obliged  to  look  so  closely  at  physical 
death  that  they  no  longer  start  at  moral 
shadows.  They  are  more  like  the  ideal 
man  of  the  Helvetius  and  D'Holbach 
school  of  philosophers  than  any  genuine 
child  of  the  forest.  Once  they  have 
eaten  and  been  filled,  they  are  wholly 
without  cares  and  anxieties,  hopes  and 
regrets.  When  not  engaged  in  the  ac- 
tive pursuit  of  their  profession  they  are 
absolutely  free,  having  rid  themselves 
of  all  such  hindrances  as  ambitions,  con- 
ventionalities, and  responsibilities.  They 
are  as  comfortable  in  their  tents  and 
huts  as  Rajahs  are  in  their  palaces,  and 
because  they  own  no  land  all  places 
are  alike  their  homes  ;  with  them,  Voir 
c'est  avoir.  They  can  feed  on  carrion 
with  as  much  relish  as  on  the  daintiest 
dishes  ;  and,  careless  of  the  morrow,  will 
squander  in  one  night's  spree  the  pro- 
ceeds of  a  season's  work.  Their  social 
and  family  relations  are  regulated  not 
by  any  instinctive  affection  or  sense  of 
duty,  but  solely  by  caprice.  As  a  rule, 
they  are  kind,  friendly,  and  faithful  to 
each  other ;  but  are  quite  as  ready  to  be 
cruel,  indifferent,  and  treacherous,  if  it 
suits  them  to  be  so.  An  Othello  would 
be  an  impossibility  among  men  who 
gladly  purchase  a  life  of  laziness  for 
themselves  at  the  price  of  their  wives' 
infidelity.  A  hen  has  greater  maternal 
instinct  than  pariah  women,  who  at  times 
will  leave  their  young  children  alone 
in  places  where  they  are  almost  sure 
to  supply  a  meal  for  stray  wolves  ;  and 
at  others,  when  the  police  attempt  to 
search  their  tents  for  stolen  goods,  take 


The  Vagabonds  and  Criminals  of  India. 


their  infants  by  the  heels  and  swing 
them  round  their  heads,  threatening  to 
continue  doing  so  unless  the  intruders 
depart.  Filial  feeling,  when  it  becomes 
burdensome,  disappears  from  their  midst 
as  quickly  as  the  mirage  in  the  desert 
fades  away  before  the  weary  traveler. 
Some  of  the  most  forlorn  outcasts  in 
the  jungle  carry  the  old  and  infirm 
members  of  their  tribe  far  into  the  wil- 
derness, and  there,  while  life  is  still  in 
them,  deliver  them  to  the  tender  mer- 
cies of  beasts  and  birds  of  prey.  "  Ho  ! 
ho  !  "  the  eldest  son  of  the  poor  victim 
sings,  in  the  words  of  a  hymn  composed 
for  the  occasion ;  "  let  us  rid  ourselves 
of  this  old  carcass.  Ho !  ho  !  the  jack- 
als will  have  a  fine  feast,  but  the  worms 
will  fast." 

The  strongest  emotion,'  perhaps,  of 
which  pariahs  are  capable,  outside  of 
their  interest  in  their  bread  studies,  is 
the  wanderer's  love  for  the  free  life  of 
the  roads. 

"  Vie  errante 
Est  chose  enivrante," 

Beranger's  Bohemiens  sing,  and  there 
are  no  men  who  have  so  keenly  felt  this 
intoxication  as  Hindu  outcasts.  It  is 
with  them  a  passion  more  akin  to  the 
attachment  of  the  tiger  to  the  jungle,  or 
of  the  gull  to  the  sea,  than  to  the  patri- 
otism of  Scot  or  Swiss.  Probably  in 
the  days  when  the  influence  of  philos- 
ophy and  learning  brought  to  the  pariah 
class  by  disgraced  Brahmans  was  still 
alive,  there  were  philosophers  of  the 
Hayraddiu  Maugrabin  type  to  explain 
this  emotion  as  an  intense  realization  of 
liberty.  An  exulting  joy  in  freedom 
breathes  through  some  of  the  old  Rom- 
any ballads. 

"  Free  is  the  "bird  in  the  air, 
And  the  fish  where  the  river  flows  ; 
Free  is  the  deer  in  the  forest, 
And  the  gypsy  wherever  he  goes : 

Hurrah ! 
And  the  gypsy  wherever  he  goes," 

is  the  refrain  of  an  Austrian  gypsy  song. 
But  the  modern  Hindu  wanderers  no 
more  question  their  liking  for  a  life  of 
roaming  than  the  tiger  or  the  gull  an- 
alyzes the  instinct  which  leads  one  to 
the  jungle,  the  other  to  the  foam  of  the 
sea.  They  are  happy  in  their  tents,  in 
stormy  weather  as  in  sunshine,  without 
knowing  or  caring  why.  But  their  hap- 
piness is  dearly  bought.  It  is  only  by 
their  ignorance  that  they  escape  that  in- 
crease of  sorrow  which  comes  with  an 
increase  of  knowledge. 

Man  might  be  content,  Mephistophe- 
les  affirms,  were  it  not  for  the  heavenly 
light  of  reason  lent  him  from  on  high. 
Pariahs  long  since  extinguished  within 
them  its  faintest  gleam,  and  therefore 
find  it  easy  to  be  satisfied  with  their  lot. 
Their  satisfaction  has  in  one  way  been  a 
blessing,  since  it  has  enabled  them  to 
bear  burdens  which  would  have  crushed 
the  spirit  of  stronger  men.  But  it  is 
also  their  curse.  One  of  the  most  pow- 
erful factors  in  the  world's  progress  has 
been  and  is  man's  discontent  with  exist- 
ing circumstances.  Were  it  not  for  the 
liberal  party  in  politics,  there  would  be 
no  reform.  It  is  the  rebellious  rest- 
lessness of  the  people  breaking  out  in 
civil  wars  which  secures  for  them  great- 
er liberty.  Because  of  their  deaden- 
ing system  of  caste,  Hindus  accept  their 
fate  as  inevitable,  and  do  not  question 
the  possibility  of  its  amelioration  or 
change.  Once  the  vagabond  and  crim- 
inal classes  ask  themselves  if  they  are 
happy,  and  if  they  might  not  become 
happier,  then,  but  not  till  then,  there  will 
be  communists  in  India.  Hell  must  be 
harrowed  before  the  heights  of  heaven 
can  be  scaled.  Until  these  outcasts  have 
tasted  the  fruit  of  the  tree  of  knowl- 
edge of  good  and  evil,  and  have  felt  in 
its  full  bitterness  the  degradation  of 
their  social  position,  they  will  remain  the 
human  animals  they  now  are. 

Elizabeth  Robins. 







WHEN  Oliphant  arrived  at  New 
York,  the  widespread  rush  and  murmur 
of  the  city's  activity  repeated,  in  its 
different  way,  the  buffeting  and  general 
troubled  noise  of  the  waves  at  Newport. 
He  had  escaped  their  haunting  effect, 
only  to  find  himself  standing  on  the 
edge  of  a  second,  but  human,  ocean  ; 
and  a  leap  into  one  seemed  much  the 
same  as  a  leap  into  the  other.  He  did 
not  know  where  he  was  going,  what  he 
was  to  do  henceforth  :  he  had  no  pur- 
pose. To  merge  himself  in  this  chafing 
tide  of  humanity,  not  knowing  what  was 
to  be  his  future,  struck  him  as  little 
more  than  another  mode  of  suicide, 
similar  in  its  result  to  that  of  losing 
himself  in  the  currents  of  the  sea. 

Putting  up  at  the  Van  Voort  House, 
he  accompanied  Roger  and  Mary  in  the 
final  ceremony  of  laying  Effie  in  Wood- 
lawn  Cemetery ;  then  he  went  to  his 
hotel  and  did  nothing.  The  next  day 
he  made  inquiries  regarding  a  passage 
to  Europe,  and  secured  the  refusal  of 
a  berth.  Immediately  afterwards  he  be- 
gan planning  a  trip  to  California.  In 
short,  he  was  aimless.  I  don't  know 
that  it  was  his  fault,  especially.  The 
present  century,  which  overflows  with 
the  most  pronounced  aims  of  all  sorts, 
probably  harbors  more  people  who  find 
it  impossible  to  have  an  aim  than  any 
century  heretofore. 

On  the  third  day,  he  received  a  letter 
from  Justin,  detailing  some  roundabout 
approaches  which  had  been  made  by 
Mrs.  Chauncey  Ware  towards  a  recon- 
ciliation, together  with  incidental  items 
of  Newport  news.  Mrs.  Ware  had  al- 
lowed semi-official  information  to  be 
conveyed  to  Justin  that  she  would  rec- 

ognize his  marriage  with  Vivian  if  he 
would  abandon  the  musical  profession, 
and  enter  a  certain  banking-house  where 
she  could  procure  him  a  reasonably 
good  position,  with  prospects  of  a  part- 
nership. Justin  had  said  in  reply,  some- 
what truculently,  that  his  marriage  was 
recognized  by  the  church,  and  to  some 
extent  by  mankind,  and  that  he  did  not 
think  he  would  make  a  very  good  bank- 
er ;  but  that,  if  his  mother-in-law  would 
treat  him  with  the  courtesy  he  was  pre- 
pared to  offer  her,  he  thought  they 
could  agree  admirably.  It  appeared, 
furthermore,  that  Count  Fitz-Stuart 
was  believed  to  have  ratified  a  treaty 
with  Mrs.  Farley  Blazer,  by  which  he 
consented  to  cede  himself  to  Miss  Ruth, 
in  consideration  of  sundry  state  obliga- 
tions, which  the  count  had  incurred,  be- 
ing assumed  by  Mrs.  Blazer;  and  that 
the  engagement  of  Lord  Hawkstane  and 
Miss  Tilly  Blazer  had  been  announced. 

With  regard  to  the  latter  piece  of 
gossip,  Oliphant,  who  read  Justin's  com- 
munication in  Roger's  office  on  Ex- 
change Place,  observed,  "  The  milk  and 
water  have  coalesced  at  last.  I  don't 
know  which  dilutes  the  other  the  most." 

Justin's  allusions  to  his  own  affairs, 
however,  set  Oliphant  thinking  as  to 
how  he  could  help  the  boy  ;  more  par- 
ticularly since  Justin  had  remarked  in 
his  letter,  "  I  have  entered  on  a  harder 
struggle  than  I  foresaw,  but  I  am  not 

He  went  to  his  lawyer,  the  very  next 
morning.  "  I  'm  about  to  go  away  from 
New  York,"  he  said,  "  for  an  extended 
absence.  There  are  some  little  things 
that  ought  to  be  arranged ;  and  I  think, 
to  provide  against  accidents,  I  'd  better 
make  a  new  will." 

The  making  of  the  will  did  not  take 
long,  but  in  it  there  was  a  provision  for 
Justin.  Oliphant  did  not  expect  that  to 




be  of  any  immediate  use ;  but  he  wanted 
to  lead  up  to  an  arrangement  which  he 
now  proceeded  to  effect,  whereby  certain 
regular  payments  were  to  be  made  to 
Justin,  in  such  a  way  that  he  could  not 
avoid  accepting  them,  ostensibly  to  aid 
the  continuance  of  his  musical  studies. 

He  also  inquired  of  the  lawyer  about 
Raish,  whose  case  he  found  had  been 
set  to  come  up  before  Judge  Hixon,  in 
the  course  of  a  month  or  so.  "  There 
won't  be  the  ghost  of  a  chance  for  him, 
I  hear,"  said  the  legal  adviser.  "  Great 
pity  —  not  so  much  on  his  account,  but 
for  his  excellent  family  connections. 
His  relatives  will  feel  it  severely." 

On  returning  to  the  Van  Voort,  he 
made  up  his  mind  to  take  the  California 
trip :  somehow,  though  he  believed  that 
he  never  should  think  of  Octavia  again 
without  a  repulsion  that  fell  little  short 
of  animosity,  he  could  not  bring  himself 
to  leave  the  country  while  she  was  in  it. 
And  having  come  to  his  conclusion,  he 
wrote  and  posted  a  letter  to  Justin,  an- 
nouncing his  speedy  departure ;  giving 
him  also  a  general  sketch  of  what  had 
happened  at  his  last  visit  to  High  Lawn. 

The  next  afternoon's  mail-delivery 
brought  him  the  few  lines  that  had  been 
wrung  from  Octavia,  the  day  before,  by 
her  silent  self-reproaches.  If  this  mis- 
sive had  come  a  few  hours  later,  it 
would  have  failed  to  reach  him,  be- 
cause, growing  restless,  he  had  deter- 
mined to  start  that  night  for  California. 
As  it  was,  he  read  it,  folded  it  up,  and 
put  it  in  his  pocket  with  a  slight  sigh, 
and  a  recurrent  pang  of  the  first  wretch- 
edness which  Octavia's  refusal  had  in- 
flicted upon  him.  He  took  it  as  one 
more  evidence  of  the  irony  which  had 
controlled  his  whole  career,  that  she 
should  not  have  come  to  her  present 
state  of  mind  until  she  had  wrought 
irreparable  havoc  with  him.  Of  what 
use  was  her  repentance  to  him,  now  ?  t 

Before  beginning  to  pack,  he  read  the 
letter  a  second  time,  preparatory  to  burn- 
ing it.  But,  as  he  read,  a  sudden  and  wild 

thrili  of  renewed  hope  coursed  through 
him.  Octavia's  words  developed,  as  he 
thought,  a  double  meaning.  "  I  was 
wrong  in  my  treatment  of  you.  .  .  . 
Uncertain  whether  you  will  return  here, 
and  even  if  you  did  so  we  should  not 
be  likely  to  meet,  I  suppose."  .  .  . 
Might  not  these  phrases  be  a  roundabout 
way  of  saying  that  she  had  erred  in  not 
accepting  his  love,  and  wished  that  h^ 
would  return  and  see  her?  He  could 
not  reason  about  it ;  he  only  felt ;  and 
his  recent  conviction  that  Octavia  had 
inspired  in  him  a  resentment  amounting 
to  hatred  did  not  seem  worth  even  pass- 
ing notice.  California  became  an  im- 
possibility ;  vanished,  in  short.  It  was 
imperative  to  get  to  Newport.  Too  late 
for  the  afternoon  train,  he  telephoned 
for  a  state-room  on  the  boat.  Every 
room  was  engaged ;  but  this  only  stimu- 
lated his  eagerness  to  go.  There  was 
not  much  time  remaining,  and  hastily 
packing  up  his  things  he  took  a  coupe, 
drove  down  through  the  city  to  the 
wharves,  and  went  on  board  the  steamer, 
with  the  intention  of  staying  up  all 
night,  or  dozing  in  the  big  saloon. 

Before  the  start,  he  met,  in  the  crowd 
of  many  hundreds  that  was  drifting 
about  the  loudly  upholstered  cabins, 
clogging  the  stairs,  and  packing  itself 
away  on  the  open  decks,  Perry  Thor- 
burn.  "  How  did  you  come  here  ?  "  ex- 
claimed Oliphant. 

"  I  had  to  run  on  for  a  day,  on  busi- 
ness," Perry  explained,  with  a  smile 
which  only  half  concealed  some  unpleas- 
ant thought.  He  had  really  come  to 
look  into  his  affairs,  and  to  perfect  a 
scheme  for  making  up  as  well  as  he 
could  the  losses  his  father  had  inflicted 
upon  him.  "  The  old  man  's  on  board, 
too.  Got  a  room,  have  you  ?  "  he  con- 
tinued. "  Awfully  crowded  to-night." 

"  No,"  said  Oliphant ;  "  but  I  'm  in 
a  hurry.  I  was  just  thinking  I  might 
have  taken  the  late  train  and  got  off 
at  Providence.  The  boat 's  cooler, 




Perry  offered  him  one  of  the  berths 
in  his  state-room,  as  he  and  his  father 
were  separate ;  but  Oliphant  declined 
it,  rather  liking  the  idea  of  being  alone 
and  of  passing  a  sleepless  night  in  rev- 
erie upon  his  revived  hopes. 

Everything  seemed  strangely  beau- 
tiful and  joyous  to  him.  As  the  boat 
swept  around  the  Battery  with  easy, 
omnipotent  motion,  and  steamed  up 
East  River,  passing  miles  and  miles  of 
masonry  on  either  side,  lined  by  cluster- 
ing ships  whose  spars  and  rigging  rose 
in  slim  black  lines  against  the  back- 
ground of  dense  brick  or  light  sky,  like 
the  characters  of  some  unknown  lan- 
guage inscribed  there,  the  scene  stirred 
and  elated  him  by  its  might  of  human 
interest.  It  soothed  him,  too.  He  knew 
what  misery  and  squalor  swarmed  upon 
those  river  banks,  and  what  anxious 
hearts  beat  in  myriads  behind  the  long 
front  of  populous  buildings  ;  but  he  felt 
that  there  was  a  dignity  in  the  human 
struggle,  which  was  intensified  by  the 
desperation  of  it,  and  redeemed  much  of 
the  pettiness  and  evil.  He  had  had  his 
struggles,  also,  and  could  sympathize  ; 
besides,  his  present  happiness  filled  him 
with  a  livelier  sense  of  human  brother- 
hood than  he  had  felt  for  a  long  time. 

The  mellow  light  of  a  peaceful  sunset 
that  was  approaching  suffused  with  de- 
licious radiance  the  smoky  heaps  of  dull- 
toned  architecture,  and  glimmered  softly 
on  the  gray-green  waters  through  which 
the  steamer  was  plowing.  The  city 
melted  away  like  a  dream;  the  Long 
Island  shore  crept  off  towards  the  outer 
ocean ;  the  green  banks  of  Connecticut, 
with  rounded  promontories  and  dim  in- 
lets, rolled  by.  The  number  of  passen- 
gers on  the  decks  diminished  ;  the  brass 
band,  which  had  been  blaring  with  a 
specious  brilliancy  at  the  after  end  of 
the  saloon,  ceased  playing :  Oliphant 
began  to  enjoy  comparative  solitude. 
Perry  joined  him  for  a  while,  and  they 
went  to  supper  with  old  Thorburn.  Af- 
terwards Oliphant  and  Perry  smoked  a 

cigar  or  two  on  the  after-deck.  Finally 
the  widower  was  left  entirely  alone,  and 
went  forward  to  the  upper  deck  at  the 

It  was  night  now.  The  stars  were 
shining  in  great  multitude  and  beauty  ; 
the  golden  points  or  crimson  spots  like 
fading  coals,  that  marked  the  position 
of  lighthouses  on  either  coast,  came  out 
at  irregular  intervals,  registering  the 
progress  of  the  voyage,  then  sank  back 
into  invisibility.  The  great  steamer 
proceeded  on  her  way  with  throb  and 
beat  and  shudder  ;  with  her  four  decks 
—  orlop,  cabin,  hurricane,  main ;  with 
her  double  cordon  of  state-rooms  ar- 
ranged like  a  system  of  cells  ;  with  her 
masses  of  costly  merchandise,  her  heter- 
ogeneous crowd  of  costly  passengers, 
her  colored  lanterns  that  glowed  above 
her  like  luminous  insects  of  large  size, 
hovering  in  the  air  and  accompanying 
her  movement.  There  was  no  stir  of 
life  upon  her  at  this  hour ;  and  Oliphant, 
sitting  close  to  the  cabin  wall,  well 
wrapped  up  against  the  night  chill, 
looked  ahead  over  the  dimly  gleaming 
Sound,  and  meditated.  He  was  very 
confident  of  his  coming  happiness  ;  all 
his  doubts  were  over ;  there  was  a  bound- 
ing exultation  in  his  blood.  The  frus- 
trations and  disappointments  that  had  be- 
set him  all  his  life  seemed  to  be  at  an 
end  ;  he  was  sure  that  he  was  about  to 
enter  upon  that  period  of  contentment 
and  enjoyable  activity  for  the  hope  of 
which  we  all  live.  How  absurd  his  pass- 
ing thought  of  suicide,  a  few  days  be- 
fore, must  have  seemed  to  him  then  ! 

The  steamer  went  on :  the  broad, 
foamy  wake  behind  her  seemed  to  weave 
itself  into  a  record  of  the  forsaken  past, 
and  every  pulsation  of  the  engines  was 
to  Oliphant  like  the  expectant  beat  of 
his  own  heart,  moving  towards  a  bright 
future.  A  thin  shrouding  of  mist  was 
drawn  over  the  stars,  after  a  while, 
which  was  occasionally  dispersed,  and 
then  returned  to  dim  the  prospect.  The 
steamer  began  blowing  signals  now  and 




then  from  her  pipes.  Presently,  signals 
in  a  similar  tone  were  heard  somewhere 
in  advance ;  a  vessel  of  the  same  line 
was  approaching.  The  two  damp  and 
screaming  voices  seemed  to  establish  an 
understanding,  as  the  red  and  gold  and 
green  of  the  other  boat's  lights  came 
into  sight  through  the  fog,  like  the 
gleaming  eyes  of  a  monster.  She  was 
steering  to  the  right.  Nevertheless, 
suddenly  she  changed  her  direction, 
swerved  quickly  around,  and  came  swift- 
ly towards  the  New  York  boat,  head  on. 

There  was  a  quick,  excited  ringing 
of  engine  -  room  bells  ;  there  was  more 
blowing  of  whistles ;  but  nothing  served 
to  avert  the  catastrophe.  The  Newport 
boat  loomed  up  clearly  in  the  fog,  for 
an  instant ;  and  then  there  came  a  vio- 
lent shock,  followed  by  the  ripping  and 
tearing  and  groaning  of  reuded  wood. 
The  New  York  boat's  engines  stopped  ; 
she  was  fatally  wounded  by  the  other, 
and  floated  helpless  on  the  tide. 

At  once  an  indescribable  tumult  arose 
among  her  passengers.  The  saloon 
lights  went  out.  Innumerable  people 
burst  from  the  state-rooms  like  resur- 
rected bodies,  and  ran  madly  hither  and 
thither  in  their  white  garments,  silent  or 
with  loud  shrieks.  The  rush  of  scalding 
steam,  escaping  from  the  engine-room 
with  a  deep  roar  of  release,  partially 
muffled  these  cowardly  cries,  and  stran- 
gled many  of  the  flying  figures ;  but  the 
noise  and  tumult  on  board  were  strange- 
ly in  contrast  with  the  silence  of  the 
night  that  surrounded  and  shut  in  all 
this  trouble  like  a  vast  and  stilly  tomb. 

A  few  found  life-preservers  ;  others 
seized  upon  chairs,  or  doors,  which  they 
or  some  one  else  had  wrenched  off,  no 
one  knows  how  ;  and  many  who  could 
swim  leaped  overboard  without  anything 
to  aid  them  in  floating.  Everything 
that  occurred,  all  the  things  that  were 
done,  occupied  so  short  a  space  of  time 
that  the  results  did  not  seem  to  proceed 
from  any  conscious  action.  Countless 
heads  of  people,  swimming,  struggling, 

or  drowning,  were  sprinkled  in  black 
dots  on  the  water. 

The  steamer  had  lurched  somewhat, 
but  did  not  appear  to  be  sinking.  Im- 
mediately upon  the  collision,  Oliphant 
had  clambered  up  to  the  topmost  deck, 
and  had  gone  aft  that  way.  Perry  Thor- 
burn,  who,  in  the  midst  of  a  frantic, 
pushing  throng  on  the  open  canopied 
deck  just  below,  was  looking  vainly 
for  his  father,  saw  Oliphant  leaning 
down  and  peering  over  from  above.  He 
shouted  to  him  and  pointed  towards  the 
water,  and  Oliphant  nodded.  Still,  some 
minutes  elapsed  before  he  leaped  :  with 
many  others  who  could  not  swim,  he 
preferred  to  take  the  last  chances  on  the 
doomed  vessel.  In  a  minute  or  two, 
however,  after  Perry  had  thrown  him- 
self from  the  rail,  a  twisted  lance  of 
flame  burst  from  the  boat's  side:  fire 
had  broken  out  on  board. 

Perry  was  a  good  swimmer,  and  had 
struck  out  towards  the  other  steamer, 
which,  after  recoiling  from  the  shock, 
had  sheered  off,  and  was  now  getting  out 
boats.  But  he  paused  very  soon,  treading 
water  and  turning  to  look  again  for  his 
father.  A  quantity  of  broken  timbers, 
boxes,  and  other  buoyant  objects  were 
already  drifting  about  in  the  water,  and 
he  found  it  advisable  to  get  hold  of  one 
of  these  and  rest  a  while.  When  the  fire 
leaped  forth,  he  pushed  still  nearer  the 
wreck.  The  flames  increased,  and  lit  up 
the  broad,  liquid  surface  around  him :  it 
was  then  that  he  saw  the  bulky  form  of 
his  father  sliding  down  a  rope,  which  he 
had  evidently  tied  to  a  post  and  flung 
into  the  water.  Perry  began  making  his 
way  in  that  direction.  Old  Thorburn 
had  not  much  skill  in  swimming,  but  he 
succeeded  in  getting  a  little  way  out. 
He  kept  casting  about  for  some  artificial 
aid.  Near  him  was  a  woman,  with  a 
small  child  in  her  arms,  who,  almost  by 
a  marvel,  had  got  hold  of  a  long  bench, 
and  was  sustaining  herself  by  it.  Thor- 
burn came  up  with  her  and  caught  at  the 
wood,  apparently  much  fatigued.  The 




bench  was   not  large  enough  to  keep 
them  both  up :  the  woman  expostulated. 

Thorburn  was  wild  with  the  danger 
of  his  situation.  There  was  to  him,  no 
doubt,  something  unsurpassably  outra- 
geous in  the  idea  that  he,  the  owner  of  the 
steamer,  with  all  his  wealth,  his  power 
in  Wall  Street  and  among  the  railroads, 
his  vast  plans  and  teeming  resources, 
should  not  only  sustain  an  actual  heavy 
financial  loss  by  the  accident,  but  should 
be  put  in  peril  of  his  life,  struggling 
there  in  the  salt  tide  like  a  common  in- 
dividual of  the  general  public,  or  as  if 
he  were  of  no  more  account  than  a 
drowning  rat.  Small  wonder  if  his  heavy 
mouth  grew  fierce  and  his  indignant 
eyes  more  belligerent  than  usual. 

He  began  to  pound  the  woman's  hands 
unmercifully,  in  order  to  make  her  loose 
her  hold. 

Perry,  who  was  still  a  good  distance 
away,  shouted  to  his  father,  sharply  : 
"  Don't  do  that,  dad  !  Stop,  I  say  !  I  'm 
coming."  At  the  same  time  he  was  ex- 
erting every  muscle  to  propel  himself 
and  his  piece  of  flotsam  to  the  spot. 

It  was  virtual  murder  that  was  being 
attempted  before  his  eyes,  and  the  per- 
son who  sought  to  destroy  another's  life 
was  his  own  father  !  This  Perry  per- 
ceived clearly ;  and  the  sight  of  the  deed 
and  the  thought  of  its  awful  significance 
were  more  abhorrent  to  him  than  any 
danger  of  engulfment  and  drowning  that 
threatened  himself.  Words  spoken  by 
a  man  in  the  water  are  necessarily  some- 
what gasping  and  uncertain  in  utter- 
ance ;  and  whether  it  was  from  this 
cause,  or  the  plashing  of  the  waves 
around  him,  or  the  increasing  hum  of 
the  flames  on  the  boat,  or  the  conflict  of 
cries  from  other  throats,  old  Thorburn 
seemed  not  to  hear  his  son's  appeal.  He 
continued  to  beat  the  helpless  woman, 
encumbered  by  her  child,  and  to  tear 
her  hands  away  from  her  accidental  raft. 
So  unequal  a  contest  could  not  last 
long.  It  was  apparently  but  a  few  sec- 
onds before  the  unknown  woman  yield- 

ed, and  dropped  away  from  the  frail 
support.  But  at  that  supreme  juncture, 
with  the  fate  of  suffocation  and  death 
closing  upon  her,  the  heart  of  the  wo- 
man was  unselfish :  it  gave  what  might 
prove  to  be  its  final  beating,  its  last  im- 
pulse, to  an  effort  on  behalf  of  her  still 
more  helpless  baby,  who,  benumbed  by 
the  unwonted  situation,  was  not  even 
conscious  of  the  deadly  peril.  She  lifted 
her  child  into  the  air  as  high  as  she 
could  with  one  arm,  while  with  the  oth- 
er she  vaguely  and  instinctively  sought 
to  delay  her  sinking. 

Just  then  Perry,  who  was  drawing 
nearer,  saw  another  dark  mass  approach- 
ing her,  only  a  few  feet  away.  It  was 
a  man,  clinging  to  a  broken  timber.  The 
man  signaled  the  woman  with  a  cry : 
"  Here  !  "  She  heard  him,  and  with  a 
last  desperate  turn  and  bewildered  floun- 
dering through  the  thick  water  she  suc- 
ceeded in  grasping  the  means  of  rescue 
that  he  offered.  That,  also,  was  very 
slight ;  insufficient  for  the  floating  of 
two  persons.  But  the  man  who  had 
called  to  her  scarcely  waited  to  test  it 
before  he  abandoned  it  entirely. 

For  an  instant  he  lifted  his  face 
heavenward,  as  if  gazing  at  the  stars, 
which  now  beamed  mildly  down  upon 
the  fearful  and  glaring  spectacle  of  the 
steamer  in  conflagration  and  her  scat- 
tered victims ;  for  the  scurrying  mists 
had  disappeared.  Ay,  thus  he  fronted 
those  stars,  which  Count  Fitz-Stuart 
had  wearily  dismissed  as  being  "  so  old," 
and  Raish  had  adopted  as  figuring  the 
glowing  butts  of  cigars  he  had  smoked. 
Then  he  cast  himself  off,  and  disap- 
peared beneath  the  low-crested  waves. 

While  the  face  was  turned  upward, 
however,  the  broadening  wall  of  fire 
from  the  steamer's  side  had  shed  upon 
it  a  vivid  illumination,  and  Perry  had 
been  able  to  recognize  the  man. 
It  was  Oliphant. 

"  Oliphant,  old  boy  !  "  he  screamed 
with  hoarse  desperation.  "  Wait !  Where 
are  you  ?  " 




"Where?  Where  indeed ?  no  answer 
came  to  Perry's  shout.  It  was  impossi- 
ble to  determine  at  the  moment  whether 
Oliphant  rose  again,  or  not ;  for,  despite 
the  ghastly  distinctness  of  the  scene, 
everything  that  happened  was  rapid,  con- 
fused, bewildering,  and  almost  unreal. 
The  surface  of  the  Sound  seemed  to  have 
grown  smoother,  as  if  subdued  by  a  ter- 
ror of  what  was  taking  place.  Perry 
swam  close  to  the  stranger  woman,  and 
began  assisting  her.  Boats  had  begun 
to  pick  up  some  of  the  survivors.  He 
could  not  bear  to  approach  or  even  look 
at  his  murderous  old  father,  who  still 
puffed,  fumed,  and  splashed,  in  his  efforts 
to  advance  by  means  of  the  half-sub- 
merged bench.  The  flames  poured  roar- 
ing upward  from  the  steamer,  in  deep 
volumes,  wide  belts,  thick  -coils,  volatile 
spirals,  —  ruddy,  crimson,  or  like  melted 
gold,  —  and  the  bones  of  the  mighty 
structure  were  heard  to  crack  as  if  she 
had  been  in  the  grasp  of  a  fiery  ana- 
conda. Their  terrific  splendor  was  re- 
flected in  the  flood  so  intensely,  so  uni- 
versally, that  Perry  seemed  to  himself 
to  be  swimming  through  a  burning  lake 
of  Hell. 

Again  came  the  question,  where  was 
Oliphant?  Perry  could  not  abandon 
the  belief  that,  somehow  or  other,  his 
friend  had  been  rescued ;  yet  the  pic- 
ture of  that  face  looking  starward  was 
stamped  upon  his  mind ;  he  saw  it  sub- 
siding into  the  vague,  relentless  wash 
of  the  waves.  He  imagined  the  stalwart 
but  helpless  figure  of  that  quiet,  manly 
man  going  down,  down,  down  into  the 
silent,  unknown  depths ;  and  he  could 
feel,  very  nearly  as  if  it  were  his  own 
experience,  the  strangling  sensation,  the 
struggle  against  suffocation,  the  final 
dreamy  resignation  which,  he  had  heard, 
accompany  death  by  drowning. 

Meanwhile,  high  over  the  weltering 
gleams,  over  the  black  eastward  smoke 
of  the  burning  bulk,  and  the  quivering 
mirror  of  water  that  tremulously  gave 
back  a  glow  of  red,  the  stars  hung 

poised  in  eternal  flight  —  calm,  restful, 
yet  distributed  over  the  sky  as  capri- 
ciously as  if  they  had  just  been  lodged 
in  their  places  by  some  haphazard  volley 
from  an  exploded  world. 



Dana  Sweetser,  whose  great  cures 
and  responsibilities  had  aided  in  making 
the  ravages  of  time  more  apparent  upon 
his  countenance,  was  engaged,  on  the 
morning  that  followed  the  steamboat 
disaster,  in  an  elaborate  toilet.  He  had 
mourned  at  length  over  some  colored 
socks  which  his  laundress  had  just  re- 
turned in  a  bleached  condition,  owing 
to  some  vicious  compound  used  in  the 
washing,  and  was  reflecting  upon  the  dis- 
appointments of  life,  as  he  softened  with 
powdered  magnesia  the  over-rubicund 
tint  which  a  liberal  diet  had  begun  to 
bestow  upon  his  nose,  when  his  valet 
burst  into  the  room  with  a  rumor  of 
what  had  happened.  Two  or  three  gen-, 
eral  telegrams  had  been  received,  which, 
among  other  details,  announced  that  Mr. 
Thorburn  had  been  lost.  Dana  was 
terribly  broken  down  by  this  informa^ 
tion  :  even  his  interest  in  his  personal 
appearance  was  pathetically  subdued  •, 
and  as  soon  as  he  could  put  himself  dev 
cently  together,  he  sallied  forth  to  gain 
further  particulars. 

The  report  in  regard  to  Thorburn 
proved  to  be  wrong ;  for  both  he  and 
Perry  were  among  the  saved.  There  had 
been  a  great  sacrifice  of  life,  but,  consid^ 
ering  the  nature  of  the  calamity,  a  sur- 
prisingly large  number  of  people  had 
been  rescued.  When  the  New  York 
papers  arrived,  after  noon,  with  fuller 
accounts  than  had  yet  been  received,  the 
circumstance  of  one  man  attempting  to 
force  a  mother  and  child  away  from  their 
only  means  of  safety  was  related,  among 
various  other  startling  and  curious  par- 




ticulars  which  the  survivors  had  given 
to  correspondents,  and  roused  general 
execrations ;  but  Thorburn,  being  un- 
known to  the  mother  —  who  had  also 
reached  the  shore  alive  —  was  not  iden- 
tified as  the  wretch.  He  was  in  New- 
port by  the  time  the  papers  came,  and 
was  met  by  a  great  many  telegrams  and 
sundry  effusive  callers,  congratulating 
him  on  his  personal  good  fortune. 

Perry  remained  at  Watch  Hill,  the 
nearest  inhabited  point  on  the  coast, 
whither  the  rescued  had  been  conveyed, 
and  where  many  bodies  of  the  drowned 
either  floated  in  or  were  brought  ashore. 
He  was  looking  for  some  trace  of  Oli- 
phant.  .  .  . 

Late  in  the  afternoon  he  entered  New- 
port, completely  exhausted,  and  drove 
in  a  hired  carriage  slowly  up  Pelham 
Street,  unwilling  to  go  to  his  father's 
house,  and  bent  upon  engaging  some 
bachelor  quarters  which  he  knew  had 
been  vacated  a  few  days  before.  It  was 
a  lovely  afternoon  :  the  declining  sun 
sent  long,  reddish  rays  between  the  old 
white  houses,  soft  beams  that  caught  the 
light  dust  and  gave  it  a  tint  as  delicate  as 
peach-bloom,  or  smote  the  outstretched 
branches  of  trees,  and  woke  them  to 
strange  ardor  of  coloring,  set  off  by  the 
cool  green  in  shadow  and  the  first  dull 
brown  of  changing  foliage.  A  scanty 
drift  of  fallen  leaves  was  blown  occasion- 
ally along  the  sidewalks  by  the  Septem- 
ber wind,  with  a  dry,  rattling  whisper. 
The  sunbeams  twinkled,  too,  upon  the 
turning  wheel-spokes  that  were  plying 
on  the  avenue,  as  Perry  reached  the 
Park.  A  pink-coated  fox-hunter  crossed 
the  head  of  the  street,  with  his  nag  at  a 
walk,  holding  his  hunting-crop  languid- 
ly, and  exhibiting  himself  in  a  light  of 
meritorious  and  manly  fatigue :  he  was 
doing  the  heroic,  for  the  benefit  of  that 
sybaritic  society  which  rolled  by  him 
so  suavely  in  the  comfort  of  its  stylish 
turnouts.  Newport  was  still  itself: 
smiling,  serene,  light-hearted  ;  rejoicing 
in  the  gentle  gratification  of  being  al- 

most English.  But  the  sight  did  not 
soothe  Perry :  it  sickened  him.  Life 
at  Newport,  which  a  few  days  before 
had  seemed  so  proud,  so  splendid  and 
fair,  became  suddenly  in  his  eyes  a  pre- 
tentious patchwork,  a  thing  of  gorgeous 
shreds  and  tatters,  gay  as  a  fool's  mot- 
ley, arid  covering  only  a  mass  of  petty 
or  flippant  traits  of  character,  bound  to- 
gether by  a  restless  desire  for  superficial 
pleasure.  He  had  just  been  brought 
face  to  face  with  the  most  fearful  real- 
ities ;  he  had  witnessed  an  act  of  perfect 
self-sacrifice ;  and  now,  as  he  came  from 
that  experience,  with  a  burden  of  un- 
speakable sorrow  on  his  heart,  tbis  world 
of  ostentatious  levity  was  a  positive  of- 
fense to  him. 

He  obtained  the  rooms  he  wanted, 
sent  for  his  own  servant,  and  so'me 
clothes  from  his  father's  house,  and  then 
despatched  messengers  to  ascertain 
where  he  could  see  Josephine ;  lying 
down,  meanwhile,  to  rest. 

During  the  two  days  since  she  had 
written  to  Oliphant,  Octavia's  mood  had 
been  brightening.  The  fine  warm  ivory 
of  her  cheeks  took  on  a  delicate  tinge 
of  rose ;  her  vivacity,  always  fresh  and 
in  force,  was  exquisitely,  unconsciously, 
varied  by  a  tremor  of  feeling,  a  more 
genial  ardor  of  sympathy  with  every 
one  and  with  everything  that  was  going 
on,  which  made  it  doubly  enchanting. 
She  did  not  dare  to  hope  much  ;  she 
scarcely  reflected  at  all ;  the  claims  of 
the  past  upon  her  and  the  question  of 
loyalty  to  Gifford's  memory  retained 
no  hold.  She  confessed  nothing  except 
that  she  was  possessed  by  a  sweet  pre- 
science that  soon  she  should  be  at  peace 
with  Oliphant  and  united  to  him.  On 
the  night  when  he  set  out  upon  his 
journey  to  Newport,  she  went  to  a  large 
ball  given  by  the  Spanish  minister  — 
one  of  the  last  and  most  iridescent 
phases  of  the  expiring  season.  The  en- 
tertainment was  dazzling  in  the  high- 
est degree.  An  immense  tent  had  been 
connected  with  the  minister's  house,  ex- 




tending  over  a  large  stretch  of  lawn  ; 
and  in  the  interior,  walled  with  an  odor- 
ous wilderness  of  extravagant  plants  in 
flower,  the  dancing  took  place,  on  a 
floor  of  perfect  smoothness,  made  for 
the  occasion.  The  weather  was  warm, 
and  both  in  order  to  cool  the  place  and 
for  the  sake  of  decoration,  a  grotto  of  ice 
had  been  contrived  at  the  farther  end, 
through  which  changing  lights  of  blue 
and  green  and  yellow  fire  were  thrown 
at  intervals,  transforming  the  glittering 
blocks  to  a  fluorescent  mass.  The  whole 
house  was  spectacular  in  the  richness 
and  glow  of  its  appointments,  its  illu- 
minations, its  floral  adornment ;  and  the 
dense  assembly  that  circulated  through 
it  flashed  and  shone  with  a  fabulous 
magnificence  of  beautiful  costumes  and 
sparkling  j  ewel  s.  Octavia  took  her  place 
in  the  scene  as  a  natural  part  of  it,  and 
held  her  own  with  ease.  She  drew  quiet- 
ly to  herself  the  best  of  attention ;  she 
danced  frequently,  with  the  greatest  en- 
joyment ;  and  those  who  had  seen  most 
of  her  noticed  the  uncommon  buoyancy 
of  her  talk  and  bearing. 

Yet,  when  the  hour  came  for  going 
away,  she  herself  was  surprised  at  the 
subtile  depression  that  weighed  upon 
her.  The  ice-grotto  had  begun  to  melt, 
and  was  on  the  point  of  collapse  ;  the 
chemical  lights  had  faded;  and  at  just 
about  that  time,  the  last  satiated  flames 
that  had  consumed  the  steamef  on  the 
Sound  were  throwing  their  exhausted 
ribbons  of  fire  into  the  melancholy  air. 

In  her  room,  Octavia  remained  awake 
for  a  while,  to  hear  the  approach  of  the 
boat ;  but  its  ominous  though  welcome 
roll  of  thunder  from  the  booming  pad- 
dles did  not  come  to  her  ears.  The 
failure  made  her  somewhat  uneasy,  yet 
at  last  she  fell  asleep,  without  being 
able  to  explain  it,  and  slept  on  until, 
near  noon.  When  she  woke,  she  had  a 
conviction  that  Oliphant  would  appear 
before  nightfall.  She  prepared  herself 
for  that  meeting,  with  the  half-shy  yet 
tender  and  minute  care  that  a  woman 

uses  —  in  a  tribute  almost  devout  to  the 
lover's  ideal  of  her  —  when  she  is  on 
the  eve  of  seeing  the  man  she  holds 
dearest.  Not  a  detail  of  her  personal 
appearance  was  decided  upon,  without 
reference  to  this  great  anticipation. 

But  alas,  Oliphant  did  not  come.  On 
looking  at  her  paper,  which  for  a  mo- 
ment did  not  seem  to  her  worth  reading 
on  a  day  that  she  believed  was  to  be  so 
joyously  memorable,  Octavia's  fluttering 
expectations  received  an  abrupt  check ; 
and  soon,  although  she  had  heard  not  a 
syllable  from  Oliphant  and  no  hint  of 
him  was  given  in  the  report  of  the  disas- 
ter, her  suspense  became  unbearable. 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  asked  Vivian, 
whom  she  immediately  went  to  see, 
"  whether  Mr.  Oliphant  was  on  board  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Oliphant !  What  put  that  into 
your  head  ?  "  the  bride  exclaimed.  "  Of 
course  not.  He  's.  gone  to  California." 

Octavia  was  bewildered,  and  began 
to  be  pained  by  an  unforeseen  anxiety 
lest  he  had  not  received  her  letter. 
She  told  Vivian  of  her  writing;  and 
then  Vivian  was  puzzled,  too.  It  was 
resolved  between  them  that  Crai<r  should 


try,  by  telegraphing,  to  ascertain  wheth- 
er such  a  person  as  Eugene  Oliphant 
had  been  among  the  passengers. 

The  answer  came  to  him  at  length, 
in  the  night. 

That  same  evening,  also,  Perry  saw 
Josephine.  She  was  visiting  again  in 
Newport ;  but  as  it  was  two  or  three 
hours  before  he  slept  off  his  fatigue,  he 
did  not  arrive  at  the  house  until  nine. 
When  she  met  him,  he  was  so  pale,  so 
haggard,  so  worn,  that  she  started  back 
in  affright. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  cried.  "  I  heard 
of  the  accident,  after  your  messenger 
came.  Was  your  father  really  lost  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Perry,  his  voice  choking. 
"  If  you  can  come  out,  I  will  tell  you." 

Josephine  threw  a  light  wrap  over 
her  shoulders,  and  they  emerged  into 
the  grounds,  which  were  near  those  of 
Octavia's  villa.  Without  a  word  he 




walked  down  towards  the  water,  and 
she  followed  him.  They  could  see  the 
bay  dancing  softly,  mystically,  in  the 
liijht  of  the  new  moon,  while  the  boun- 

O  ' 

dary-trees  in  front  of  them  blotted  the 
silvery  radiance  with  a  pattern  of  black, 
twisted  trunks,  sharply  and  uncouthly 
distinct.  Then  Perry  paused. 

"  It  was  not  my  father,"  he  said.  "  It 
was  Oliphant  who  was  lost." 

A  cry  of  horror  and  of  suffering 
escaped  from  Josephine's  lips.  She 
leaned  forward,  and  hid  her  face  upon 
her  arm,  against  one  of  the  trees.  For 
the  first  instant,  her  emotion  seemed  to 
Perry  only  what  he  might  have  ex- 
pected ;  but  it  lasted  so  long  that  he 
began  to  question.  With  a  rush,  then, 
the  truth  came  to  his  mind. 

"  You  loved  that  man ! "  he  ex- 

She  lifted  her  head,  at  this,  and  met 
his  intense,  jealous  scrutiny  without 
wavering.  There  was  a  riddle  in  her 
eyes,  still,  as  there  always  had  been, 
and  doubtless  always  would  be ;  and  in 
this  semi-obscurity  of  the  night  it  was 
more  than  ever  hopeless  to  attempt 
solving  that  riddle.  Her  fac^i  was  very 
white,  he  could  see;  yet  he  could  al- 
most have  doubted  whether  'the  voice 
which  answered  him  came  from  the 
softly  moving  lips,  or  from  the  shadows 
that  surrounded  her. 

"  Yes,"  it  whispered.    "  I  loved  him." 

Something  like  an  imprecation  rose 
to  Perry's  lips,  but  he  only  groaned  : 
"  I  wish  I  could  have  died  in  his 
place ! " 

"  You  must  n't  say  that,"  Josephine 
returned,  with  strange  calmness,  though 
speaking  hardly  above  her  breath. 
"  You  have  no  right  to  wish  it." 

"  Why  ?  "  he  demanded,  bitterly. 

"  Because  it  was  fate.  You  must  ac- 
cept what  fate  brings." 

"  Ah,  if  it  had  brought  me  you  !  " 
he  began,  in  a  passionate  way.  "  But 
no !  You  never  could  have  married 
me ;  and  even  if  things  were  different, 

I  could  hardly  offer  myself  to  you  now." 
He  went  on  rapidly,  pouring  out  an  ac- 
count of  the  catastrophe  and  his  father's 
brutal  conduct.  "  After  that,"  he  said, 
"  how  should  I  hope  to  win  a  woman  like 
you  ?  The  son  of  such  a  father  !  I  sup- 
pose I  have  the  same  traits  in  me, 

"  But  you  're  not  like  him,"  Jose- 
phine returned,  coming  suddenly  to  his 
defense,  against  himself.  "  If  you  were 
you  would  n't  condemn  him." 

"  Then  you  think  there 's  some  chance 
for  me  ? "  he  asked,  giving  way  to  a 
slight  laugh  of  scorn.  It  was  succeeded 
by  a  burst  of  earnest  entreaty.  "  Oh, 
Josephine,"  he  cried, "  is  there  any  hope, 
any  possibility,  that  I  may  win  you  by 
and  by  ?  I  will  be  content  with  any 
love  you  can  give,  if  you  think  you 
might  be  happier  with  me  than  without 
me.  Only  let  me  know  if  I  may  keep 
this  hope  before  my  mind !  " 

"  I  cannot  speak  of  it  now,"  she  said, 
in  her  mysterious  tone,  that  was  neither 
cold  nor  warm,  but  .neutral,  and  shud- 
dering a  little.  "  It  may  be  our  fate  — 
but  not  now ;  not  now."  After  a  si- 
lence she  asked,  "Is  this  what  you  came 
here  to  say  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  assured  her.  "  I  want  you 
to  help  me  in  a  difficult  task.  This  news 
must  be  broken  to  Octavia." 

He  then  explained  to  her  that  he  had 
found  upon  Oliphant,  tightly  folded  in 
a  letter  case  within  a  covered  pocket, 
the  note  Octavia  had  sent  him.  It  was 
somewhat  water-soaked,  but  legible  still, 
and  Perry  had  been  able  to  guess  from 
it  something  of  the  events  which  had 
inspired  it. 

Josephine  consented  to  go  with  him 
to  High  Lawn,  and  he  waited  outside 
the  door,  while  she  went  in  to  see  Oc- 

"It  is  all  over,  Octavia,"  she  said, 
quietly,  as  the  widow  entered  to  greet 
her.  "You  and  I  have  been  separated 
lately;  but  there  is  no  need  of  it  any 




Octavia  came  up  and  caught  her  arm, 
with  a  quick,  apprehensive  demand  for 
her  meaning.  Briefly  and  tenderly,  as 
well  as  she  could,  Josephine  imparted 

Octavia  took  the  blurred  letter,  and 
glanced  at  it  for  an  instant ;  then  sank 
into  a  chair,  gazing  wanly  at  the  woman 
who  stood  motionless  opposite  her.  She 
shrank,  and  seemed  to  wither  visibly